


Dance with a Devil

by littlelostcat



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Spark Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:39:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 50,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27215812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelostcat/pseuds/littlelostcat
Summary: A ritualistic murder hits Beacon Hills, is it a serial killer or something even more sinister?  Stiles thinks both and has to convince the others that there is something here the Sheriff's department can't handle ... before he becomes the next victim.  Can Stiles and his friends stop the killings in time?
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 26
Kudos: 103





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started back in 2013 as a TW BB -- with _AMAZING_ art and everything (although given the time and the fact that I haven't talked to the artist since 2013 I will not be posting the art). Unfortunately I didn't finish and it's been my fandom regret. So I set myself the challenge of finishing it this year. Beta'd by my delightful anonymous beta who fixed some crucial points. But all mistakes are my own; any comments or constructive criticisms are welcome. :) 
> 
> The characters depicted here belong to Jeff Davis and MTV, except later characters of Charlie and Gwendlyn who belong to me. 
> 
> This is marked as Teen because of language and scenes of violence. I've marked it as both M/M and Gen ... if you want to see the pre-Sterek, it's there. If you don't, it isn't? I'd like to think of this as pre-Sterek/pre-relationship.

~~ * ~~

_He kept his distance, stayed half a block away, held his head low and walked on the other side of the street. Every few houses he adjusted the books in his hands and stopped to get a better grip, everything casual and normal. But. He kept his eyes on the length of her shadow and when he sped up to the corner street he caught a glimpse of her dark hair. He saw her cross the road, then waited for a car to pass before following after her._

_She stopped in front of one of the houses and looked up, a light was on downstairs and in one of the upstairs rooms. Someone walked in front of the window, arms moving rapidly, then the figure moved out of sight. He glanced up but he kept his eyes on her. Nothing else mattered. This was happening and it was starting with her. She stayed where she was for a moment then her shoulders dropped slightly; she adjusted her bag and kept walking._

_She had no fucking clue._

_At the corner, she stopped and looked both ways. Alley or crosswalk? Giddy excitement raced along his spine and his fingers tightened around his books as he edged closer. Alley. Or. Crosswalk. She glanced back and he kept his head down; appearances were vital right now. She might suspect, she might have the that prickle of awareness at the back of her neck, but she didn’t know. She couldn’t. No one did. No possible witnesses, no possible threats. But still, a voice whispered in his mind,_ caution.

_She didn’t look back. Her eyes were focused on the street just a few feet away. He walked the length of the alley, like he’d practiced over and over and over. He stepped widely over the puddle behind Mrs. Grawland’s house and crouched behind the trash can at the Jurson’s. He peered over the top, preparation and his need for precision stilled him._

_Everything had to be perfect._

_He pulled the bottle and cloth from his bag, poured more than enough over the cloth and took a deep breath. The sweet scent made him look over at her and he didn’t even try to stop the grin. She’d stopped, he imagined her hands shaking around the straps of her bag as she looked back and caught her breath. Her breath trailed in the air like small, rapid puffs of smoke._

_He stayed low and waited; waited for her to turn back. Then he ran at her, slammed her body face first into one of the gates. She gasped under him and opened her mouth to scream, then breathed the chloroform. He held her tight, one arm around her arms and body, the other pressed to her face with the rag. Her body shook as she fought; she was stronger than he’d anticipated and the reality of it made him push harder against her._

_He pulled them out of the light and kept his hands tight, then felt her give as her breath slowed and her head fell back loosely against his shoulder. He laid her on the ground, quickly and methodically covered her body with his dark jacket and some nearby leaves. When he stood back he smiled; she was practically invisible and would be unseen from the road._

_He pulled her bag onto his shoulder and walked back down the alley, he passed the house she’d stopped at before and noted that the sheriff’s cruiser now sat in the driveway and the upstairs light was off. He hurried to where he’d left his car, then drove slowly to the alley. No cars on the road, he thought and had to once again clamp down on the laugh that wanted to bubble up. A small part of him couldn’t believe it had worked, couldn’t believe that this was happening. The other part, the part that whispered victory wasn’t his yet, contained his confidence and excitement. He idled the car between the lamp posts, kept his headlights off, then popped the trunk._

_“You’re the first,” he whispered, “It had to be you.”_

_The trunk fell shut, he locked it and slid into the driver’s seat then turned the radio on and hummed along. He could feel the power, the gift promised to him, and his fingers itched with the thrill of it. That thrill made its way up his arms until his entire body coursed with it. A taste, he thought, this was just a taste of what he could have._

_This was real._

_This was actually happening._

_He parked and left the headlights facing the tree-line, then dragged her from the car. When she rolled her head, he tightened the bonds on her hands and ankles. He secured her to the ground and gagged her mouth, ran his finger along her cheek and down to her neck._

_He grabbed the rope and nails, bound her arms to the ground and watched as she began to move and awaken. Just a few more minutes, he thought. He lay the candles, four red and one white, around her body. He lit one then used the flame to light the next and the one after._

_When all were lit, he stood at her feet and completed the circle. He began the incantation and lay the peacock feather on her body, the tip barely brushing her chin. Her eyes fluttered open then locked on his. He shook his head slowly and tried to keep the smile from his lips, he really did try. “I’m so sorry, Annie.”_

_He continued the incantation and watched her eyes become more focused and move from him to the knife. She pulled at the bonds harder and tried to scream, but the gag firmly in place muted any sound. He lifted his hand and the knife caught the light from the candles. When he lowered it, he finished the first step of the ritual._

_Blood spilled, power gained._

~~ * ~~

The news that morning had been less than forthcoming: the body of a seventeen year old girl had been found by the preserve and the authorities were stumped. Stiles knew that “stumped” was being kind; when he’d woken up that morning his father had still been at the crime scene. A quick phone call and orders to ‘go to school’ had been all that he’d gotten. He scrolled through the news, again, while the other students walked into the school. He heard the warning bell, pocketed his phone, then spilled out of the jeep. 

“Hey,” Scott nodded and slid his helmet off; he slid the bicycle’s lock into place and tested it like usual.

“Hey, you hear about the missing girl?”

“What girl?” Scott frowned, snapped his helmet around the top handle of his backpack and started walking towards the doors.

“ _Dude_ , some girl’s body was found last--”

“We’re not going to look for her,” Scott cut in and grabbed his arm; Stiles rolled his eyes and pulled free.

“Yeah, I know,” he moved forward again and Scott followed, “Besides, the police already found the body. But they don’t know anything about her. And, get this, my dad called Deaton.”

“Deaton?” Scott frowned and unlocked his locker, “Why?”

“I don’t know. They don’t have a name yet, but the news is saying it’s a seventeen year old girl. She could have been a student here.”

They both looked down the hallway at the other students shuffled from their lockers to class; a group of basketball players walked passed them and two girls walked arm-in-arm in the other direction. Scott shook his head, shut his locker, and walked with Stiles to his own.

“But what are the odds? I mean, there are two schools in Beacon Hills. Plus the one on the Stephensville side.”

Stiles blinked and shook his head, “Really?” he shook his head again, “Already that’s like 33.3%. And, dude, have you even been paying attention the last few years?” He grabbed his morning books and slammed his own locker shut enough to shake the thin metal and its’ neighbors. “It’s Beacon Hills. It’s a dead body. This one is one of ours, buddy.”

He watched Scott bound down the hall; shook his head and headed to his first period. Sometimes, he thought, he was the only one who could put two and two together and get the right answer. He sat through English and listened with half an ear while Mr. Priston explained the importance of Faust and things we don’t understand. Stiles snorted, yeah, don’t sell your soul for power. He glanced at Isaac, nodded, then looked back to his notes--and his phone under his desk. 

His dad had to have gone to Deaton for a reason, and if it had been an “animal attack” Deaton would have called Scott. He refreshed the news then glanced up when the bell rang and everyone around him began shuffling their books. 

“Hey.” Isaac grabbed Stiles’s shoulder, pushed him against the wall and kept his hand braced next to Stiles’s head. “What’s up?”

“Dude!” Stiles hissed and straightened, he shoved Isaac’s chest then grunted when Isaac stayed exactly where he was.

“What’s going on?” Isaac repeated and stepped closer, he made of show of baring his teeth and flashing his eyes. “You’re antsy. Anxious.” 

“Nothing. And we both know that the Kujo eyes don’t work on me,” Stiles said pointedly. He looked over Isaac’s shoulder then rolled his eyes when Isaac simply raised an expectant eyebrow. “Look, it’s probably nothing. Just a missing girl.”

Isaac straightened then stepped back, “Missing? Like Erica?”

He froze and had to stop himself from reaching out. His heart thumped against his chest as he shook his head, “No. Like dead missing--they found a girl last night but haven’t released her name yet.” He adjusted his shoulder strap, grateful for something to hold onto. “Keep your ears open, ‘k?”

Isaac nodded, his eyes hooded, and Stiles pushed his way past. Once he rounded the corner, he rested his head against the cold brick and took a few deep breaths. Erica was gone, she wasn’t coming back. He knew this. Scott knew this. Hell, even Derek probably knew this. But, he bit his lip and focused on the pain and metallic taste that followed because the look Isaac got when someone brought her or Boyd up made him want to throw up. A lost puppy who’d lost his two best friends; his pack. 

He forced himself to push Erica’s disappearance to the back of his mind. At the sound of the second bell he jogged into Chemistry, breathed a sigh of relief that Harris hadn’t made it in, and dropped his backpack down as he dropped into his seat. He scrolled through his phone, checking the reports that never updated, and waited for Harris to breeze into the class with another “pop quiz.” 

Newsflash, asshat: if you give a pop quiz every week, they aren’t “pop”.

The kid next to him, Chuck? Chet? Chris? nudged his elbow and Stiles glanced over, “Did you study?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, looking back at his phone, “Shouldn’t be too bad.”

“Whatever,” the kid sighed and looked back at his notes. Stiles glanced at the guy’s quiz from last week--Charlie. “I bombed the last one. I’ll never understand chemical kinetics.”

Stiles nodded absently and scanned the class, no one had been absent from English and it looked like everyone (but Harris) was in this class. He looked at Charlie, glanced back at his notes, and saw a mistake on the first question and rolled his eyes. He debated pointing it out, but he had bigger things to deal with than some kid’s chemistry grade. 

“Hey, was anyone absent in your first class?”

Charlie nodded, he set the pages on his desk and turned to Stiles, “Yeah. Annie, my history partner, wasn’t in.”

Excitement and dread bounced over Stiles’s spine, “Really?” He leaned over and lowered his voice, “Is she sick?”

“I don’t know,” Charlie shrugged, “We met last night for our mid-term project and she seemed fine, then she walked home. I figured she caught a cold or something. Why?”

Stiles shook his head and ignored the answer that made his shoulders tighten and the spot between his shoulder blades itch, “Just wondering. There’s, um, a bug going around? I don’t want to catch it.”

Annie, he thought. 

Charlie frowned and opened his mouth, then immediately shut it when Harris walked into the classroom with a stack of papers in hand, “All right, miscreants, I hope you used your weekend wisely and studied. Today you’re going to tell me about more about transition states. And let’s hope your answers are better than last week’s jokes.”

He walked directly to the lab table with Stiles and Charlie, looked Stiles in the eye and put the paper down. “And Mr. Stilinski, let’s try to keep the answers on chemistry. No one cares about the history of radium.”

“Also known as curium,” Stiles said with flare.

“Also known as no one care-sums, Stilinski.” Harris replied. Stiles let the insult roll over him, ignored it, and scribbled his name in the corner. He glanced up at Charlie, already struggling, and shook his head. He might not be Harris’s favorite student, but at least he wasn’t that bad. 

He spent the rest of the morning sneaking to look at the news--or lack of it--until finally he turned his phone off and buried it at the bottom of his bag. Nothing was going to change in the next five hours, he just needed to push it aside until they knew more information. He made it through the rest of the day--well, okay, he checked the news again during lunch but that doesn’t count--and raced home. Without practice, he made it home and finished his homework before dinner. After adding the final layer over the casserole and sliding it into the oven, he called his father. 

“Stilinski,” Sheriff answered, his voice rough with exhaustion.

“We have a code 3151 in progress,” Stiles reported in his best dispatch voice, then smiled when his dad sighed. 

“It’s dinner, isn’t it? I’m missing dinner. Again.”

“Again,” Stiles agreed with a nod, even though is father couldn’t see, “And, using my Stilinski detective skills, I am deducing tonight is every man for himself.”

The sheriff sighed again, groaned, and Stiles imagined him leaning back in his chair. He heard his father shift the phone from one ear to the other, “I’m sorry, son, this Annie Furst case--”

“Wait,” Stiles cut him off and stood straighter, “wait...so it _is_ Annie Furst?”

“Crap, don’t say anything. We haven’t released that yet,” there was a pause, then his father lowered his voice, “Did you know her?”

“Not really, she went to my school but I didn’t _know_ her know her. How did she die?”

“Stiles,” Sheriff said and he knew his father was pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Dad, come on,” Stiles clicked the light on in the oven and found the casserole bubbling nicely, then focused on his dad. “One of the guys in my Chem class is--was--her history partner.”

“Really? Name?” He heard papers rustling in the background, then something fall and his father curse.

“Charlie something; come _on_ ,” he begged, “What happened?”

“We’re not sure, still figuring it out,” his dad’s voice sounded distant, already thinking of the next two steps in the investigation. “Look I gotta go. And, Stiles,” his voice sharpened, attention back, “Stay in the house. Don’t go to the crime scene. Do not make me send a patrol car to the house,” he paused, “Again.”

“Right,” Stiles rolled his eyes, “Right. Totally staying in. But, there’s casserole in the oven when you get home in case I’m,” he hesitated, “already in bed or something. Just reheat for twenty minutes at 325.”

“Or something,” his father repeated, “I mean it, Stiles, I don’t want to find you at the park like with the Hale girl in the woods.”

“Dad,” Stiles sighed, loudly, “That was a one time thing. Lesson learned and, hello, totally a mistake.” He grabbed his phone, sent Scott a text saying to be ready in fifteen minutes, then continued, “I’ll see ya when I see ya.”

“Love you, son,” the sheriff said.

“Love you too, Dad.” Stiles replied, then hung up. 

He quickly ate, dumped the dishes in the sink, then grabbed his phone and keys and was already walking to his car when Scott text back. He pulled up as Scott was closing the front door.

“I’m not sure about this,” Scott said in lieu of greeting when he climbed into the passenger seat. 

“It’s fine,” Stiles reassured him. “You’re a natural at this.”

“Whatever,” Scott sighed, he slouched in his seat and stared out the window. “So, she really went to our school?”

Stiles raised his eyebrows and glanced over, “You say that like we didn’t already know.”

“We didn’t.”

“I did. In fact, I specifically remember saying that she would be from our freakin’ X-Men reject high school.” He glared and pulled up to the crime scene, turned the engine off but left the lights shining over the police tape. Both boys crawled under the tape, Scott leading the way and looking around. Stiles had to bite the grin when Scott lifted his face, nose first, and walked to the left. It was cute, really; not that he’d ever admit it out loud. 

“Are you sure about this?” Scott asked. He looked around. “It doesn’t look safe.”

“Scott,” Stiles said and raised his hand, began ticking his fingers, “You are a werewolf. You have claws that literally come out of your hands when you get angry or scared or, worryingly, turned on; you have super speed; you have super healing.”

Scott nodded and straightened, “Right.”

“Plus,” Stiles smirked, “You might,” he wiggled his fingers and widened his eyes, “sense something.”

“Shut up, dickface,” Scott laughed but he took a deep breath and walked to where the body had been. There was no mistake where she’d been; five wax circles outlined the space where her body would have lain. Candles, Stiles figured and took a step closer. A red symbol filled the space between the circles, long lines that ran the length of a teenage girl’s body. He stepped forward and squatted down, traced the symbol in the air then lowered his hand to touch the paint until Scott grabbed his wrist, roughly. 

“Wait,” he pointed and Stiles immediately pulled his wrist free, cradled it to his chest, “Don’t touch that. It’s blood, and smells fresh.”

“Ew. You sure?” he asked, standing then wrinkled his nose when Scott nodded. “Well, that’s the grossest thing I’ve ever heard. You think it’s Annie’s?”

“I don’t know, probably?” Scott answered and stepped closer, “There’s something else though. It smells funny.”

“Funny. Funny how?”

“I don’t know,” Scott frowned, his forehead wrinkling as he sniffed again. “Funny.”

“Sage,” the sheriff answered as he raised the police tape. He shook his head and waved both boys under, then stared as Stiles passed. “And incense--we think. Still waiting on the reports.” Once the boys were on the right side of the tape he continued, “And now you’re both going home.” He pointed at Stiles. “And you and I are going to have a pointed conversation about communication and obedience when we get there.”

Stiles swallowed and nodded, he opened his mouth then snapped it shut when his father shook his head. On the drive back to Scott’s, Stiles kept flicking glances to the rearview mirror, and saw his father’s Sheriff-and-Father-Done-With-Your-Shit face already firmly in place. Crap. 

“Sorry,” Scott mumbled.

“Not your fault,” Stiles sighed.

“I didn’t even hear him.”

“Yeah,” Stiles laughed weakly as he slowed in front of the McCall house. “I’ve lived with him for eighteen years and he still creeps up on me.” He looked, again, at the rearview mirror and saw his father point forward. He groaned and dropped his head to the steering wheel, turned to wave at Scott. “See ya.”

“Good luck,” he whispered, then hopped out and sent a stilted wave to the sheriff before walking up to the house. 

Stiles drove home, his father half a car-length behind him, and felt the crushing weight of another fight (and lie) about to happen. When he pulled into the driveway, his father pulled up behind him effectively blocking the jeep in. His father walked around the car and wordlessly held his hand, and waited for Stiles to drop the keys in his hand. Stiles opened his mouth, argument already starting when his father spoke.

“They’ll be on the counter in the morning,” then held up his hand. “Not out here. Inside.”

He unlocked the door, ushered Stiles in, and Stiles flipped the oven on as he passed to lean against the counter. This was their usual “place;” all fights happened with Stiles’s back against the counter beside the fridge while his father stood in the space between the stove and island. The fact that Stiles knew their fight places made his chest tightened painfully.

“Damn it, Stiles,” his father sighed and his fisted his hand against the island top, “You can’t keep showing up to crime scenes like that.”

“I didn’t just show up! We went after the scene had been cleared.”

“Stiles. You are a minor,” he began ticking fingers on his unfisted hand. “You are the son of an elected official, The Sheriff. You were trespassing on an active crime scene. Police tape means active crime scene. It means keep out. You _know_ that.”

“But, Dad--”

“No. No. You and Scott could have contaminated the scene! But more than that,” he pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes; then dropped his hand and looked at Stiles. Shadows hung under his eyes and Stiles could see the familiar signs of exhaustion edging around his father. “You told me you’d stay in. You promised me.”

Stiles swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I was trying to help,” he balled his fist at his waist, the truth desperate to come out. Instead he shoved it down, away. “I’m good at this. I can help you.”

“So am I,” he father yelled, “It’s almost like it’s my job.”

Stiles blinked to stop the tears that prickled his eyes. He deflated and backed up a step. “I can help you, Dad. I knew about Matt. I can--”

“This isn’t some messed up kid, son,” the sheriff sighed and took a step closer. He breathed deeply then looked Stiles in the eye and continued, “An innocent girl the same age as my son, who went to the same school as my son, died a horrible death last night. It wasn’t peaceful by any stretch of the imagination. So, maybe, I don’t want my kid involved. Maybe I want to keep that dark side of real life away from my son for just a little bit longer before he heads away into the world that I can’t stop. If I even can at this point. Stiles, I never want you or Scott to know what I saw last night.”

Stiles nodded and took a step closer, “But, Dad, I’m not Annie.”

“I know, but you _are_ my son; and until I know who did this and why, I didn’t even want you knowing the girl’s name. Let alone where it happened. I don’t want you even driving on that side of town.” He gripped Stiles’s shoulder and squeezed. “Just. Leave this one? Please.”

“I’ll try,” he lied, the word bitter in his mouth and he sniffed, wiped the back of his hand across his nose. “Until you come asking for my help. Because you know I can help. And, because, I know I’ll be able to help you.”

His father rolled his eyes and smiled, and something loosened in Stiles’s chest. “Don’t hold your breath.” He pulled Stiles in and hugged him hard, “Go to bed, kid.”

Stiles held tight, then held a second longer and breathed in the scent of his father and let go. At the base of the stairs turned back, “Five more minutes and your dinner’s ready. Might as well get a meal in before you head back.”

The sheriff smiled and nodded, then Stiles felt his dad’s eyes on him as he trudged up the stairs. He wondered if the lies hung around him the way exhaustion and ignorance hung around his father. 

~~ * ~~

His days (and nights) became consumed with school, homework, lacrosse; and researching rituals that required female blood or youthful blood or just plain blood, rituals that used incense and sage--or some combination of the two or in conjunction with the two, and tried to look into the symbol found at the crime scene. There were at least two dozen rituals crossing different religions and cultures. All-in-all he, kind of, hated Beacon Hills. 

Like, seriously, he hated it.

He sat in the school parking lot going over his “other” notebook--the one that stayed hidden when his dad was home and on his person the rest of the time. The excuses for demons, werewolves, and spells were few and far between and the graphic images he’d drawn or pasted into the notebook with various descriptions and forms of death were just asking for an unscheduled trip to the mental hospital. He shuddered at that thought. 

He flipped to a blank sheet in the back while he waited for Scott and drew the symbol, again. Two curved lines, not touching but forming an oval; triangles and lines along the inside, then a second, smaller and connected inner oval. He’d seen the symbol before, like one of those magician images that’s there but not in focus so you have to keep looking until you see it. But you never really do. He barely heard the bell but jerked when Scott, grin and all, beat his hands against the driver’s side window.

“Dude,” Stiles gasped, hand to chest.

Scott shrugged and opened Stiles’s door, “Shoulda been paying attention.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, “Whatever. Ready for your Spanish test?”

“No,” Scott’s smile dropped into a worried frown, “Hey, anything on Annie? Has your dad said anything else?”

Stiles stopped then shook his head, “Nothing. And,” he laughed weakly, “no, he still wants me to stay out of it.”

“Maybe we should? Maybe we--”

“Dude, no. We,” he gestured between himself and Scott, “can’t. I’m only guessing here but I’m pretty sure that we can expect four more dead bodies.”

They both stopped as a few people around them slowed and stared, and Stiles glared at each them in turn until Scott pulled him through the doors and against the corner of the lockers.

“What do you mean more bodies? Four? Are you sure? Who?”

He shook his head, “I don’t know. I don’t...I’ve been looking into sacrifices and rituals, things like that, trying to find out what we saw the other night.”

“And?”

“Aaaaaand...I haven’t found anything. Not yet. Not exactly like Annie’s at least. But there are enough similarities in the rituals that I have found to say that if there are five candles, there’s five bodies. Candle,” he raised one hand. “Body,” he raised the other. “And, you know, lights out for both.”

Scott frowned, his brow furrowing, as the bell rang.

“Scott,” Stiles sighed, “Just trust me?”

Scott nodded, “Yeah. Yeah, you know I do. It’s just--”

“Look, I gotta get to Latin. Lunch?”

“Definitely.”

He ran to his class and dropped into his desk while the teacher spoke with one of the other students. Around him people are were talking about “poor Annie” and speculating about her death and disappearance; someone whispered that she’d been a part of a cult and Stiles consciously fought back the need to grind his teeth or break his pencil. It was a losing battle. Poor Annie, poor Annie who hadn’t talked to any of the people talking about her. 

How was it her fault? She was just some girl walking home. She’d been sacrificed; it could have happened to --

“Stiles?” he glanced over.

“Yeah?” He watched as Charlie bounced his desk closer in that awkward way when the legs weren’t made to turn. It was another losing battle and Stiles watched Charlie attempt to hold onto his pens and books as he moved. It was pathetic, really.

“Has your dad found anything else about Annie?”

He shook his head, “No, man. Sorry.” Dried blood and wax filled his mind and he locked them up tight. He tried to push back the already imprinted image of the bloodied symbol and the scent of burned herbs. “Nothing.”

“It’s just,” Charlie sighed, looked down at his notes then back up and swallowed, “she was my history partner, you know? I might have been the last person to see her...alive.”

“Have the police talked to you yet?” Stiles whispered and leaned closer. The last thing he wanted was more gossip about Annie, but … you can’t beat talking to the last person to see the victim alive. 

“Yeah,” Charlie nodded, “Just now, before school. But I don’t think I helped much. I mean,” he leaned closer, “She left. I assume she walked home, but didn’t make it. I even offered to drive her.”

Stiles opened his mouth when Danny sat beside Charlie with a _thunk_ and nodded to them, dimples winking. “Hey, Ms. Lionel call me yet?”

They both shook their heads then as she called Danny’s name, his grin deepened, “Present!”

Stiles rested his chin on his hand and listened to the whispers around him when people thought the teacher wasn’t listening. She _hadn’t_ been into the occult, right? She’d just been in the wrong place and wrong time, Stiles thought and nodded to himself in agreement. It was the only thing that made sense. He thought of himself and what those same people would say. They wouldn’t know he had a notebook of supernatural lore or that he spent more time with supernatural beings than humans, so how could he really know about Annie? Still, he thought, there was no indication that she was into anything out of the ordinary. 

He forcibly ignored the rumors, ignored the questions about his father and the investigation for the rest of the day. He spent the afternoon practice on the bench, occasionally stepping in when Coach wanted to test the second string kids, but kept going over what he knew. Or what he assumed he knew. Or what he’d garnered from sneaking into his dad’s office and cracking into his safe.

There’d been no defensive marks, but there was trace chloroform residue on her skin and clothes. Bruises from where she’d been grabbed and where she’d been held down; more bruises and cuts from the rope that had been found (and catalogued) at the scene. That didn’t scream “occult,” it said abduction. The peacock feather (which, what the hell?), herbs (sage, rose petals, parsley and bella donna), candles (according to the wax residue, four white and one red), and symbol painted in human blood said ritual sacrifice. And, he thought, that could be seen as occult or something like that but it just didn’t ring right for him. This was a one man … one person, he corrected, operation. At least he knew, or figured, why his dad had gone too Deaton. Peacock feather? That was a pretty specific bird, Stiles thought, and not a feather you could just pick up. He paused, or could you?

He followed the rest of the players off the field and an idea began to form; he nodded and pointed a thumbs up at Coach when he passed. “Another great practice, Coach!”

“Stuff it, Milinski.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and grabbed his things from his locker, watched with a grin when Coach clapped Scott on the back and congratulated him on another practice as Captain. 

“Just,” Coach smiled and tightened his fingers in what looked to be a painful grip, “Glad you’re on the team, McCall.”

Scott nodded his thanks and stepped back, caught himself before slamming into Stiles. 

“I need a favor,” Stiles said immediately.

“Favor?” Scott pulled his shirt over his head, dumped it in his bag, and frowned. “Like what?”

“I need a,” Stiles lowered his voice and leaned in, “wolfy favor.”

Scott stepped closer and shut his locker. “What?”

“I need you break into Annie’s room tonight and--”

“Stiles,” Scott groaned, “I can’t tonight. It’s my mom’s only night off this week and we’re doing a mom and son thing. Besides that’s creepy and I thought we were staying out of this.” 

“No. We’re not. This is more to this than just a girl’s murder; you know that,” he paused then kicked his bag, “Can’t you do it after?”

“No man, it’s movie night and everything. Mom’s getting pizza and popcorn. It’s really important,” he bumped his shoulder against Stiles’s, “What about tomorrow?”

“No,” he replied, already looking for his--AH! “I got it. Never mind,” he said already walking across the locker room; he jumped over the bench and landed next to Isaac, grinned and wrapped his arm around Isaac’s shoulders. “Isaac!”

“No.”

Stiles huffed and pushed him back a step, hand steady on Isaac’s chest and glaring at him until the locker room had cleared out. “Dude, you came to me.”

“Yeah, because you were bouncing in class and were making me itchy.” 

“I need your help.”

“I said no,” Isaac replied then sighed when Stiles grabbed his shirt. He stepped back then leaned against the locker and looked over. “Let’s see if it’s worth my time. What do you need?”

“I need some help finding out who killed Annie Furst. ”

Isaac froze, “What?” He looked around and sat on the bench, looked up, “What do you need?”

“Woah, suddenly you’re gung-ho?” Stiles asked, tilting his head to the side. 

Isaac scuffed his foot against the floor and clasped his hands together, let them hang between his legs, “Her mom...she knew about my dad and she tried to help me a few times.”

Stiles nodded, unsure of how to respond to that or how to respond to Isaac’s look. Instead, he continued on. 

“I just need you to get into her room and see if you can sense anything with your werewolf mojo-”

“Don’t call it that.”

“And,” Stiles carried on, “see if there’s any culty things, witchy things. Anything out of the ordinary.” Isaac nodded and when he moved to leave Stiles gripped his elbow, “And...can we keep this between us? Like, not tell Derek?”

Isaac smirked, “Yeah? Why’s that?”

Stiles adjusted the strap on his bag and scowled, “Because Mr. I’m-The-Alpha has kept to himself recently and he can keep keeping to himself. And his creeper uncle.”

Isaac nodded, smirk still in place, “Sure. We’ll try that.”

“But is he,” he thought of Derek then changed his mind when Isaac turned back, “Is Peter even still around?”

He nodded and winked before he slipped out the door, “Yup, Hales stick together.”

Stiles stood, alone in the boys locker room and waved his arm at where Isaac had just stood. “Ugh. That was creepy. Hales stick together? What is that? The family motto? God. Freaking werewolves.”

He stopped, realized he was talking to himself _again_ and went home. He was already preparing for a long night, thought about calling on Deaton for some ritual basics and information then decided against it. He just didn’t trust the guy. Instead he stopped for a couple of energy drinks on the way home, a burrito that had seen better days, and locked himself in his room.


	2. Chapter 2

~~ * ~~

_He pulled his yearbook out and drew a small, red ‘X’ over Annie’s picture; it was a bit cliché, he thought, but the knowledge, the life, needed to be marked. He went to his bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror, a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. Were his teeth whiter? A bit straighter?_

_He turned to the side and lifted his chin; his skin was definitely clearer and his belly flatter. There had been doubt, of course; but now?_

_Now he could feel the power running through him; the power promised to him. The power he earned. Now he had a need that begged to be filled. Now he needed more. He needed a plan._

_He pulled his shirt over his head, vehemently pushed down the shame that immediately made a blush rise up his chest, and looked at himself. He’d never need to feel shame or embarrassment again after this. He’s never be a loser, a nobody, again. He brought both arms up and flexed, grinned and turned to get a look at his back. Oh yes, there was definition. Not much, not enough, but some. More than there had been. He wouldn’t be sidelined anymore. He wouldn’t be a wallflower._

_He pulled his shirt back on, winked at his reflection, and nearly skipped his way out the door. He had one more thing to do tonight, then he could rest and prepare for tomorrow._

_He slowed as he neared Annie’s house and stopped a few houses away. It was a risk, but a necessary one. He didn’t see any cop cars, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t an unmarked car somewhere on the street. He kept his head low and focused on her window. Then he watched someone--male--in her room; his shadow moved slowly across her room, picking things up and putting them back. The voice in his head teased him, challenged him._ Isaac Lahey _, the voice whispered and he felt a rage boil. When he asked how, the voice simply repeated itself._

_Why was Isaac in Annie’s room?_

__The boy _, the voice answered,_ Didn’t you hear them? __

_His fingers shook around the wheel. He had! He had. He had. He had. And why had Stiles asked Isaac to sneak into her room after practice??_

_Why was Stiles so damned interested? Why was he sending other people to break into Annie’s room? What did Stiles know?_

_He watched Isaac a few more minutes, shifted his car into gear, and then froze. Isaac’s head poked out the window, looked both ways, then he leapt--literally jumped from sill to ground--with barely a second glance. When did Lahey become the fucking gymnast?_

_He glanced back up to Annie’s room, saw the light flick on then off again. It must be a parent, he thought, checking the nosies that Isaac had been making in their dead daughter’s room. He knew there was nothing in there, knew Isaac would have found nothing, but still his hands clutched the steering wheel until the leather creaked. The last thing he needed was some detective wannabe bastard, son of a rent-a-cop, and his gymnastic meddlesome friends getting in his way._

_He drove the long route home, drove past the place that he had already staked out in case this whole thing actually worked, changing his already perfected plans to accommodate Stiles and Co. He needed provisional plans, he needed a Plan C. When he got home, he called to his parents then sat in his darkened room with the scrying glass. He held the mirror in his hand and felt it buzz; the silver of the mirror began to swirl. Black smoke seemed to fill the reflected silver until he saw his own reflection in the darkness. He prayed and praised; let visions overtake him and let the images drive him. He accepted the images, the future, that flashed through his mind with a laugh. He wanted more. More. More. He dreamed that night of power and blood; long limbs and soft lips, muffled screams and indomitable power. He saw it all, he saw himself as he should be._

_He woke refreshed, recharged, and prepared to remember Annie. His Annie. He called to his mom that he was leaving and promised to get milk when she called back, ignored the annoyance that followed. He was more than his mother’s errand boy, so much better._

_He took the turn onto Mere’s Way and kept his speed low, then caught sight of Stiles leaning against his jeep and talking on the phone. To Isaac, probably, and he felt last night’s anger rise up. Judging by Stiles’s face Isaac was telling him that the expedition into Annie’s room was pointless. Which he knew, which is why he chose her. Little Annie Furst: boringly sweet, practically daughter-of-a-preacher innocent. And judging from the cheap suit Stiles was wearing, he was also on his way her memorial._

_He grinned, sharply, and sped up slightly as he passed the Stilinski house. Well, he’d see Stiles there._

~~ * ~~

Stiles blew through the yellow light then cursed the woman who tried to cut him off. 

“Not today,” he snarled and sped up, then braced when he took the turn on Monroe too sharp. It wasn’t his fault he fell asleep at 3am (again) or that he missed his alarm (because his phone had somehow migrated to the closet) or that Isaac called as he was leaving (and demanded that they talk then). It wasn’t his fault! 

He took the final turn, tires screeching in protest around the curve, then let out a low whistle; full house, he thought and saw a spot in the back. He pulled into the space then jerked his hand against the horn and his head against the window when Derek opened the passenger door and slid in. It took less than a minute for Stiles to ogle, pull himself together, and glare. He did note, though, that Derek had cut his hair over the summer. 

“What are you doing here?” Stiles hissed and checked the rearview mirror then both side mirrors. Please, God, don’t let anyone see the former murder suspect and overall suspicious character crawling into his Jeep. 

“Why did you ask Isaac to break into some girl’s room?” 

“Did he?” Stiles sputtered, turned more fully towards Derek and pointed, “Is nothing sacred? Where have you--he said--” 

“Stiles,” Derek snapped. “Why did you have Isaac--” 

“Okay, geez, I heard you the first time. A girl in our class died on Sunday, possibly under mysterious circumstances.” 

“Mysterious how?” 

“Ancient rituals, bloody sacrifice, the usual,” Stiles ticked off on his hand, waved his three fingers. 

“And Isaac?” 

Stiles glanced at the time then ran his fingers through his hair, “I wanted someone to see if there was anything suspicious in her room, something the cops might have missed. You know, since in they might not have known what to look.” 

“But there wasn’t,” Derek finished with a slow nod, and Stiles could pinpoint the minute Derek’s eyes narrowed and the idea cemented itself in Derek’s mind. “I’ll check it out.” 

“Wait!” He grabbed Derek’s shoulder, his fingers scratching across the leather and he had a sudden flashback to the night they’d saved Isaac, the night Derek saved him from Isaac, at the sheriff’s station. His palms began to sweat and he quickly let go as Derek sat back and turned. 

“What?” 

“Check what out?” he asked, and hated how his throat suddenly dried around the words and how his neck warmed under Derek’s stare. 

“The crime scene,” Derek answered slowly, “And the girl’s room.” He jerked his head towards the auditorium, “No one should be at their house now, right? Half the town is here. I’ll check it out.” 

“But Scott and Isa--” 

“Stiles,” Derek grinned and flashed his eyes red, “I’ve been doing this longer than a couple of high school betas. Besides, Scott couldn’t find his leg if it wasn’t attached and Isaac is still learning what he can and can’t sense.” 

Wordlessly he nodded and watched Derek smirk then close the door as he left. Fucking werewolves, Stiles thought and let his head fall back against the chair. He glanced down at the time and cursed; he was so so so late. He pushed open the door, and pushed thoughts about Derek Hale out of his mind. Now he needed to focus on the memorial and the mourners, not leather clad jackass werewolves. He passed his father’s cruiser and wondered if his father was here as sheriff and voice of the police or if he, too, thought the killer might make an appearance. Or maybe he was here as a fellow parent mourning a child, a part of him thought. 

He spotted Scott and squeezed through the other students, ignoring the groans as he stepped over and between people, until he reached the seat beside him. He frowned at Scott’s confused face, ignored when Scott whispered, “Dude you stepped on, like, five people. You should have gone around.” 

Yeah, Scott, and miss the faces of possible suspects? Not likely. He bit his tongue and turned his attention to Principal Collins, who was already at the podium talking about the loss in the community and school. And, seriously, where had _that_ guy been last year? 

“Annie was one of our brightest stars. She worked hard in her community, at school, and at life. She reminds us that it doesn’t matter who you are--student, teacher, parent--you can make a difference. I remember when she first walked through our halls...” 

He continued talking and Stiles looked around at the mourners; if the killer was a student, would he--or she--show up? It made sense, he thought, then caught sight of a group of girls in the front corner crying on one another’s shoulders. Did they even know Annie? From what he remembered, she’d been a loner and wallflower. She hadn’t played sports or been in any clubs. He caught his father’s eye and nod, watched his father’s gaze sweep down the row beside him. His dad would speak next as the voice of authority and the community, and would emphasize the importance of safety, numbers, and vigilance. 

And he’d still be blind to three-fourths of the information he needed. Stiles fisted his hand into a tight ball and pushed that thought to the side, then turned when the side door creaked open and Isaac’s face rounded the corner. He sent a quick text to wait for him after the memorial then sat back. After his father and a few of Annie’s friends had spoken, he made his way towards Isaac and pulled him into one of the empty classrooms. 

“What,” Isaac asked and flicked a glance at the door. 

Stiles balked, “What you do mean _’What?_ ’ What did you find?” 

“I told you earlier. Nothing. Just a room.” 

“Is that before or after you told Derek? Which I’m pretty sure we agreed wasn’t going to happen.” 

Isaac leaned against one of the desks and shrugged, “He already knew. Or figured it out. So I told him.” Silently, Stiles raised his eyebrows and Isaac blew a breath. “I told him, like I told you, it was just a normal teenage girl’s bedroom. Nothing that felt or smelled out of place. Honestly, it felt creepy being there. She hadn’t been there in a few days—” 

“Wait, you can tell specific timeframes? How do you know that?” 

Isaac ducked his head and mumbled, “Derek’s been teaching me some things over the summer.” 

Stiles drew back, “Teaching you? Like, what, how to use the Force?” 

“No,” Isaac replied, rolling his eyes, “How to use all of my senses instead of just the obvious ones.” 

“Huh. Is he any good?” 

“Yeah,” Isaac nodded and grinned. “Really good, actually.” 

Stiles nodded and let the image of teacher Derek roll around in his mind, then glanced at Isaac and straightened. Yet another thing filed away. “Sooooo, nothing to suggest anything...supernatural? Nothing at all?” 

“No, just a normal girl. Wrong place, wrong time. Sounds like one for the cops,” he said with a shrug then nodded to the hallway, “Can I?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles nodded and watched Isaac go. He waited a minute then stepped out of the room, leaned back against the lockers, and tried to fit Annie’s complete normalness into place. 

It one wasn’t a normal death, though; it wasn’t a case of ‘wrong time, wrong place.’ He knew it, and when he thought about walking away his fingers itched and the crime scene flashed in his mind. If he were a betting man, he’d put money on a demonic ritual. And he didn’t need to be a betting man to know that Annie’s death wasn’t a one-off, it wasn’t a crime of passion. Her death was deliberate and thought out, and it was the first of five. Part of him accepted that he needed it to be something more, something beyond her (or his) control. Because, otherwise, it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. And it wasn’t something that he could understand. 

He straightened when the doors opened again and his father walked out, followed by Principal Collins and a few teachers. The sheriff pulled Stiles aside, nodded when the others walked passed, and kept his voice low, “Look, about the other night--” 

“It’s fine,” Stiles nodded. 

“No,” Sheriff crossed his arms and shook his head, “It isn’t. I was serious. I don’t want to see or hear about you at any crime scenes. I don’t want to see or hear about a familiar blue Jeep driving slowly by, or parked a suspicious distance from, any active or recently active--as in active in the last twelve months--crime scenes. Got it?” 

Stiles rolled his eyes and tried to smile but it felt more like a grimace, “Dad. I won’t. You won’t. Besides, I’m heading home after this.” At his father’s look, he hurried. “Homework. Lot’s of homework.” 

“Okay,” Sheriff nodded, gripped Stiles’s shoulder and squeezed. “I worry.” 

“I know, me too.” 

His dad turned away then turned back, rolled his head and straightened, “It looks like I’m working late again.” 

“Anything new?” He raised his hands up when his father stared at him, “Just asking a question. I’m trying to show interest in my dad’s job and in the local community. This is a community matter, dad. I’m interested.” 

“Be interested. At home. You, and the rest of the community, can rest assured that the sheriff’s department is working round the clock to find out what happened. Now. Go home, kid.” 

~~ * ~~

At home he set up his “cyclone of research”: his copy of Encyclopedia of Demons and Demonology that had seen better days was open in front of him, a pile of online print outs and notes on one side, his notebooks and coffee on the other. A caffeine-fueled buzz ran up his spine as he reread the book’s frustratingly small entry. It might be small, he thought, but everything added up. He pulled his laptop down and pulled up the usual sites, then heard the window slide open. He held a finger up while he Derek crawled in, bookmarked another site, “Hold up.”

“It’s a demon,” Derek said over him, then stood when Stiles jump and crowed. 

“Adramlech, right?”

“What? What’s that? I don’t know,” Derek answered, shaking his head, “It wasn’t a werewolf and sm--”

“No, dude, mine wasn’t really a question but it would be cool if your werewolf senses could pick up on that.” he grabbed the book, his notebook, and pulled Derek closer. “Look,” he pointed, “So I figure it wasn’t the usual sacrifices, if there even are usual sacrifices, but this is more like a ritual to free a demon. Like a genie. There’s a similar layout and ingredient list, I guess.”

“Genie? Ingredients?” Derek leaned back, sat in Stiles’s desk chair and watched while Stiles paced and spread his arms wide.

“Yeah, genie,” he grinned then sobered, remembering Annie’s body. “Genies. Demons. Whoever this is finds this demon and somehow communicates with him. Probably has some device or way of communicating, we should find that but it isn’t priority numero uno. Anyway, he communities somehow. The demon promises him something if he’ll do this ritual, which includes sacrifices by the way, and He thinks, cool, I’ll do it.”

Derek repeated, “Cool, I’ll do it?” Stiles shot a glare then continued.

“But it’s not like Aladdin’s genie. Because it’s a demon,” Stiles sat on the edge of his bed, adrenaline pulsing through his limbs and dancing in his stomach. He didn’t even try to stop his leg from bouncing or his fingers from tapping a beat against the bed and his leg. It was awful, he thought, but also kind of amazing. _Demons_. “The demon--”

“Adremlemma,” Derek cut in.

“Adramlech,” Stiles corrected, “promises our killer something but it won’t be right. Say, He wishes for love. The person he wants to love him will lose someone they love and that person then turns to him. He wishes for a health and instead of long life, he’s cursed with passing his illnesses onto others.”

“Really?” Derek asked.

“Yeah, happened in the fifteenth century,” Stiles pointed to the bottom of one of the print outs and handed it over. “The guy eventually drowned himself because of the guilt. Adramlech is one of the higher demons of,” he frowned, “Hell? I guess. I’m not sure. That part’s a bit fuzzy. But he’s a bit more psycho than your run-of-the-mill demon. He’s the grand chancellor of hell and he’s in charge of the Devil’s wardrobe.” Derek raised an eyebrow and Stiles nodded, “I know, right? Why does the Devil even _need_ a fashion police?

“But in all of the literature I can find, which isn’t much, he’s always symbolized with peacocks and peacock feathers. I think it probably has some kind of Greek and Roman connection, but that doesn’t matter,” he waved his hand, and waved the thought away. “Get this, the sacrifices for this guy involve children or young adults. When their emotions are still forming and at their peak. So put everything together: the teenagers, peacocks, and the herbs? I’m thinking Adramlech.”

Derek nodded, set the book and pages on the desk and leaned back. “Demons.”

“Yeah, demons. Well, a demon. What do you know about them? And how did you know about the demon?”

“I thought you didn’t want me involved,” Derek said with a raised eyebrow. 

“Really? We’re doing this now? There is a killer out there who has, literally, bled a girl to death. And you want to talk about keeping secrets?”

“It didn’t smell like a werewolf and,” he shrugged, “I don’t know, Stiles. There was something there but not something I’m overly familiar with.” Stiles shook his head and waved his hands. Go one, he wanted to say. Derek continued, “I don’t know much about them. They’re supposed to smell like sulfur and ash, the air is colder than with humans and werewolves. Demons come from hell where it burns so cold it feels like fire to the skin. They were stories to keep us--kids--inside at night.”

“Says the werewolf,” Stiles choked out a laugh and shook his head; Derek glared, grabbed the pages, then began reading. Stiles hesitated, then let out a deep breath, “You know, it isn’t ‘free’ yet. There were five candles.”

Derek twisted back and nodded, “Yeah, I thought the same thing. It sounds...”

“Right.”

“Horrible,” Derek corrected, then stood up and moved to walk to the window.

“Yeah, wait, no, wait. Where are you going?” Stiles stood and grabbed Derek’s arm; he kept his grip firm when Derek turned back, glanced at Stiles’s hand then back up but didn’t pull away.

“To Deaton. He might know something.”

“I’m coming,” Stiles said, quickly grabbing the book, his notebook and jacket.

“No,” Derek shook his head and shook his arm free, “You’re not.”

“Yes. I am. I’m the one who figured out this wasn’t some regular murder, even after your padawan missed that it was a demon. I’m--”

“Padawhat?” 

“Isaac told me about the whole teaching him to be a werewolf. Good job, by the way. But I’m coming,” he crossed his arms, “Or I’ll go after you leave.”

Derek fisted his hands, crumpling some of Stiles’s papers in the process, and let out a long sigh then relented and added, “I’m driving. And I’m asking the questions.”

“Cool,” Stiles nodded and led them downstairs. Doors, he wanted to say, were meant for entrance and exit. Not windows. And not windows that faced Mrs. Mallory’s kitchen, especially after the sun had already gone down. In the car he waited until they had pulled out of the driveway. “You know, I missed this.”

Derek barely glanced over, “What? Murder?”

“No,” Stiles shrugged. “Well, yeah. Saving people, hunti--”

“No.”

“Stopping bad guys,” Stiles grinned and winked.

He thought he saw a trace of a smile when Derek grunted, “Me too.”

They passed the high school and a few cars--including his father’s--were still in the lot, then they pulled up to Deaton’s. The lights were out and a shiver ran along Stiles’s neck. “Maybe he’s gone for the night?”

“No,” Derek said, turning off the car, “He’s here. Probably around back.”

“How do you know? Can you sniff him out?”

Derek stared at him, then furrowed his brow, “His car is in there in the back.”

Stiles looked and sure enough he could see the corner of Deaton’s car. “Oh, talk about anticlimactic.”

Derek glanced back as he opened his door and replied, “Story of your life, right?”

Stiles gaped, watched Derek round the hood of the car, then scrambled out. “Was the a joke? Do we joke now?! That was low. Between saving your furry ass from hunters and who knows what it’s hard to find time for--”

“Just stating the facts, Stiles,” Derek cut in and led the way around the back of the building, then pulled open the door and nodded for Stiles to go first. 

He shook his head and chuckled as he walked past. Sometimes he actually missed Derek. He opened the back room door and Deaton look up from his desk. He nodded to Stiles, then to Derek. Then waited, patiently, like always. 

Derek walked around Stiles and stared at Deaton until Stiles felt like he was in the middle of a standoff. He huffed a breath and moved to stand beside Derek, then set his book on the operating table--which, as far as Stiles was concerned, saw more supernatural conversations than actual surgeries —and flipped to the page with Adramlech. He pointed at the image, colored with vibrant colors and gilded lines, and looked up, “We think there’s a demon in town.”

“Or trying to get free,” Derek corrected. Deaton closed the book in front of him and flipped off the desk light, then walked to the other side of the table and examined the passage and image. He hummed and flipped the page over then back. 

“And why do you think this?”

Derek opened his mouth, but Stiles cut in. This was his to tell. He told Deaton about the murder, about what he and Scott had seen at the crime scene and the research he’d dug up on Adramlech and demons. Then while Deaton skimmed a few other pages in the book, Stiles looked over at Derek and raised his shoulders. Seriously, Deaton was the worst Obi Wan. 

Deaton nodded and flipped to another page then finally looked up, “It’s rare for a demon to try and come into our world, and even more rare for it to actually work.”

“But it can happen,” Stiles confirmed.

“But, yes, it can happen,” Deaton agreed. “Usually it involves a group of people, or a very powerful person.”

“What happens if it does happen? And what if it’s just one person?” Derek asked.

Deaton raised his eyebrows, “Then we will have something much worse than a kanima or Gerard Argent on our hands, something Beacon Hills hasn’t seen since I came here.”

Derek stepped forward, “And what do we do?”

Deaton looked at Derek, then slid his gaze to Stiles. “Stop the it before the demon gets free, would be my suggestion. And before the demon is able to fully take possession.”

Stiles swallowed and backed up, “Why are you looking at me?” He pointed at Derek’s back, “Werewolf. _Al-pha_ ,” pointed to himself, “Human. Not alpha.” 

Deaton nodded and smiled sadly, “Adramlech is a demon of pride and vanity; he is corrupt and corrupts those who are in contact with him. He is a demon of humanity. He is also cruel. The ritual to release him or any demon of his level, if I am not mistaken, is complex and one that,” he paused and shook his head, “grows in complexity. It calls for five sacrifices: innocence, faith, pride, and joy.”

“That’s four,” Derek said and Stiles took a step closer to Derek.

“That is four,” Deaton agreed and looked at Stiles again. “The fifth is the human self.”

Stiles let out a chuckle and purposely relaxed his shoulders, “Oh, no, I’m not doing this. And, don’t worry, I’m not about to kill myself for some demon.”

“Not you,” Derek murmured slowly. “The killer.” 

Deaton nodded, “If the killer is an eighteen year old boy, he will need an eighteen year old male.” He pushed the book back across the table to Derek and frowned in a way that made Stiles’s stomach drop. “I would suggest, Mr. Stilinski, that you tread very carefully around demons and things beyond our realm. Other worldly beings have a tendency to search out those already associated with the other world.”

Derek’s hand found Stiles’s shirt and held him still, “Or not at all.” 

He dragged Stiles out of the vet’s office until Stiles pulled free; he glared, went back in and grabbed his book, looked at Deaton then stormed to the Camaro. “Don’t.”

“Stiles, you’re not--”

He held up his hand, then pointed at Derek. “I am the only one--the only one--that knew this wasn’t just some murder. Scott laughed, you and Isaac didn’t believe me. I’m also the one that figured not only that it was a demon but figured out which demon it was. In less than a week, I might add. I am not going to sit back and watch the rest of you dick around while I might be able to find more information about a) sicko serial killer and b) an _otherworldly_ demon.” He mimicked Deaton’s tone with the word and glared at Derek until the other man relented. 

Derek glared over the roof, “Get in.” He waited until Stiles broke eye contact and pulled open the door then pulled his own door open; once inside the car he sighed and tapped his hand on the wheel. “Yes, you figured it out. But let us stop it.”

“Us? Us who? Scott, who barely looks at you? Isaac, who’s still in werewolf training school?” He carried on when Derek wrapped his fingers around the wheel, the leather protesting as he tightened them. “Or, Peter, the guy who tried to kill us all?” 

“Yes, Stiles, that’s who I mean,” Derek snapped, then turned on the car. Stiles bit his lip and looked out the window, letting the silence fill the car as they drove. They stopped in front of his house and he saw the cruiser parked in front. 

He could feel his own hands shaking and his cheeks heat when he finally turned to Derek, “I can help. And just because you think you’re better at this--whatever this is--doesn’t mean I’m not going to try and stop another four more people from dying. Four more kids from my school. This isn’t a game. Sometimes we need to work together to figure this out, and that means including the guy who isn’t _otherworldly_.”

He was really starting to hate his life, and hate that word in particular. He yanked open the door and went to get out when Derek stopped him, wrapped his hand around Stiles’s wrist and pulled him back. He ignored the heat the flooded his system and the way his body immediately followed the pull. 

“Not alone,” Derek whispered and waited, Stiles turned back and looked at him. “None of us do this alone. We don’t know anything about Adramlech or,” he breathed and flexed his grip, “whatever his name is or what he’s capable of. We don’t know who is doing this ritual. Stiles there is too much that we don’t know.”

Stiles nodded and got out of the car, then watched Derek drive to the end of the street and wait. He shook his head, jogged across the street to his house and saw Derek’s headlights disappear around the corner. When he opened the front door he saw his father at the table, coffee in hand and a file spread out in front of him.

“Dad?” an icy ball settled in his stomach. The dad looked up, looked at the clock and back at Stiles. “At Scott’s,” he lied, and the ball in his belly shuddered. “What’s wrong?”

The sheriff sighed, leaned back then rubbed a hand over his face, “There’s been another murder.”

Stiles swallowed and walked over to the table, “Another girl?”

“Yeah,” Sheriff nodded and stood, dumped his coffee down the sink and hung his head. “Another seventeen year old girl, Miranda Wickers.” He leaned against the counter and looked over to Stiles, he could see the exhaustion bruising his father’s face. “The bastard left her school ID next to her body. Like he wanted us to know who she was and that she was a Beacon Hills student before we even saw at her.”

Stiles took a step closer, eyes darting around the table and file, “Beacon Hills?”

Sheriff nodded, his lips a thin line. “Yeah.” He shook his head and walked back to the table, looked up at Stiles, “Christ, what’s happening to our town?”

Stiles swallowed, pulled the chair out and sat. “It’s gonna be okay, Dad. We’ll figure it out.”

“Stiles,” his father groaned, he dropped his head in his hands and rubbed the heels against his eyes. “I can’t do this ton--”

“Dad,” he reached out and touched his father’s wrist. “Dad. You were right. You are right. I’m just a kid. A kid who went to school with these girls, a kid who knows that school inside and out. A kid who listens when people whisper about what’s going on and who hears what the students are saying.” He waited until his father looked up. “You know I’d be listening anyway; I can give you a different perspective than what Deputy Hillman can get out of the students. High school students aren’t going to tell the police everything, Dad. You know that.”

Sheriff looked down at the file, “Stiles —”

“Dad.”

His father sighed, “Off the books and nothing that goes beyond what you already hear. No questioning, no going to crime scenes or possible crime scenes, no nothing.”

Stiles pulled the file towards him, “I’ve never seen nor heard anything about I’m about to see or hear.”

Sheriff smiled, a real smile, “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to perjury, kid.” He looked at the file in front of Stiles and nodded. “This one was found outside, but it looks like she was killed elsewhere. Either he’s getting smarter, or—“

“Or he’s got more things in plan.”

His father nodded.


	3. Chapter 3

_He slid the yearbook from under his mattress and flipped through the pages until he found her picture. He crossed it out then stared at the two X’s among a sea of smiling and bright faces. Her picture was perfect, but he’d have expected nothing less. High ponytail, bright eyes, promise practically oozing out of every pore. She was the picture of high school. “And,” he murmured, “a joyful heart.”_

_He ran his finger over Annie’s picture then Miranda’s. He didn’t need to look in the mirror to see the difference; he felt more energized, his arms felt more toned, his stomach felt flatter and tighter. He flexed one arm and felt the unfamiliar tingle of muscle bunching beneath the skin. And he laughed to himself._

_It was so easy. It was just so easy._

_He slid the yearbook back into place and ran down the stairs, ignored his mother’s call. He had more important things than mother’s errand boy routine. At school he saw Stiles talking--if that was what you’d call it--to Lydia, and he felt fury cloud his vision. Even without that ass Jackson, she still walked the halls like a queen. And Stiles her ever present joker. He stopped at his locker and fiddled with the lock, then stared and listened. He could barely hear Stiles’s whiny voice over the rage building._

_He saw Lydia look at Stiles then turned back to her locker. A cold breeze brushed the back of his neck when Stiles reached into her locker and grabbed one of the books, then stopped when Lydia cleared her throat._

_“I swear, Lydia, it’s nothing,” Stiles pleaded. He focused on them. Stiles pulled the book down and panic bubbled inside of him when he saw the cover, sweat wet his palms and he strained to listen closer. The voice in his head warned that Stiles needed to back off. He tried to brush it aside, blamed Stiles’s curiosity on his father, but the voice whispered again that Stiles was getting too close._

_“If it’s nothing, Stiles,” she sighed and grabbed the book back, “Why do you need it?”_

_“Because,” Stiles said, waved his arm to the side then at Lydia,“because I need it. For things.”_

_“Stiles,” Lydia said, then lowered her voice and he strained to listen over the bodies walking to class. He used the demon’s gift to listen, to push past the bustle of noise. “This book is a joke. The spells don’t work, remember? It’s just a bunch of unimaginative rhymes and wasted herbs.”_

_“Then you won’t miss it,” Stiles pointed out and pulled on the book, “I’ll give it back on Friday. Promise. I just...this could be important.”_

_The bell rang and he slammed his locker, then hurried to class. By the time he got there Stiles was in his seat, Danny already talking to him. And a hysterical panic rose in him. Stiles knew. But how? Was Danny part it? Did Danny know? He dropped his bag and watched Stiles barely look up. How did Stiles know? Who else?_

_“Hey, man” Danny smiled, “You okay?”_

_He nodded, needed to calm down. “Just...yeah, just a bit off, ya know?”_

_Danny, good old Danny, nodded in sympathy, “I know. It’s crazy. First Annie, now Miranda. This town, man.”_

_He swallowed, even as the pleasure wrapped around the earlier anxiety, “Yeah, man. What’s going on?”_

_He looked up when Harris came in, glanced over and saw Stiles head deep in the chemistry book. He turned the pa--he didn’t! He focused when Stiles turned the page again. The book inside Stiles’s chemistry book!_

Stop him, _the voice screamed._ Don’t let him ruin this!

~~*~~

He spent the morning ducking his head and skimming the spell book between classes, then rushing to the next class. He waited between the lockers and read until each bell rang. It was like a tickle in his mind. Over the summer he and Lydia had tried to use the book to cast spells, but none of them had worked. And after two weeks wasted, they knew the book was a joke. But something about the way Annie had died, the sage and incense, nudged at his memory. The worst part about being an organized chaotic brain child was knowing something was in his brain but not remembering where that knowledge came from or where he’d tucked it away.

And honestly, he knew, any book called _Hells Bells: Spells, Hexes, and Potions_ and was sold in any everyday bookstore was bound to be a joke. Surely, it was just a way to make a quick buck. A quick buck that he and Lydia had split. 

Stiles sat by himself in the corner of the library and slouched low in his seat, he was far enough from the door that no one should see him or disturb him. He had his notebook open with the list of evidence from the Annie’s murder and what his father had told him about the latest murder. He thought about last night and how broken his father had sounded; how did he tell his father that another psychotic student was killing people?

The short answer was: He didn’t. And, he didn’t have any evidence to prove that it was …. except that familiar tug in his gut. 

He dog-eared one of the pages, a spell to search out magical energies, then flipped to the next and barely contained the groan, How to Find True Love. The spell suggested to use lavender grown on the full moon in February. Actual suggestion, he thought, try one of the dozen apps out there. He flipped to another section then froze when a shadow fell over him. 

“How about now?”

Tension clawed at his neck as he straightened and looked up to see Lydia already taking the seat across from him and resting her chin in her hands. She smiled sweetly, a smile that he knew could bite a man’s head off without so much as blinking. He kept his finger on the page, closed the book, then looked at her. “How about after school? Like we agreed when you gave it to me?”

“We didn’t agree, you stole it out of my locker and ran. But you’re here now and I’m here now. And I don’t know if I really want to spend my time with Derek, whose pack of idiots tried to kill me and whose uncle used my mind as his personal sadistic playpen.” Her raised her eyebrows and jutted her chin out, “So. Why do you want a waste of four dollars and paper?”

He debated, ran his thumb along the base of the spine, then gave up and filled her in. When he finished he leaned forward, “But the evidence is stuff from this book. The candles, sage, and incense? That was in one of the spells, right?”

Lydia pulled the book to her and turned to one of the pages in the back. “This one is a balsamic vinaigrette recipe without the olive oil. It’s supposed to bring prosperity to the person who ingests the ‘potion’.” She dropped her fingers from the air quotes and flipped to another page. “This one is meant to find someone’s true love with a lock of their hair and a scrying board. It’s a joke.”

“But--”

“Stiles,” she sighed, and he hated the way her voice took on that patronizing tone. He wasn’t wrong. He looked down to the page was showing him, her look saying more than enough. On the page a small goblin was hanging in a wooden cage, reaching out to its captors with a furious scowl. That had been the page that had made them close the book, look at each other, and realize the ridiculousness of their night spent. They swore to never talk about it again. 

“Lydia,” he held a hand up, “I don’t think it’s the actual spell. I think someone has figured out a way to manipulate it. Like someone took the basics and with the help of a,” he lowered his voice and leaned closer, “demon was able to make the spell actually work.”

Lydia stopped, frowned and pulled the book back. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she glanced up, “that means that the woman who wrote this wasn’t a complete idiot and we’ve just lost a chance to become millionaires based on crappy writing. And it means that someone out there has a demonic grand chancellor planning an escape.”

“Makes you wish for the days of homicidal lizards, right?” Stiles joked weakly. 

“Too soon,” Lydia shot back, her cheeks rosing, then flipped the book back to him and pointed. “This is the one I’d say is the one being manipulated.”

“Summoning a ghost?” Stiles frowned and scanned the page. The image was a cheerful woman in white apparently talking to a group of children, as far from demonic grand chancellor as you could get. “But we tried that one. Sage, sandalwood--”

“Sandalwood is one of the main ingredients in making incense,” Lydia said.

“Yeah, I know. Candles,” Stiles continued. “I mean, it could be--”

“If your theory is right, which I’m not sure it is, then this is the closest spell in the book.”

“How do you know?” Stiles asked and held the book up, his finger still keeping his place, “It’s huge and everything rhymes.”

“Some of us remember what we read,” she smiled sweetly, then kicked him when he mimicked her and reread the spell. “Now, come on. It’s lunch and I’d like to eat before this calculus test.”

“Don’t remind me,” he muttered and slid his notebook and the spell book into his bag. “Between Deaton and this, I barely had time to study.”

She linked her arm through his, “Well, if you stopped interfering--”

“I can help.” 

At the library doorway she stopped, grabbed his chin and waited until he met her eye, “It isn’t whether or not you can or whether or not you are helping. Sometimes you need to let the police do their job and the werewolves do theirs.” She smiled softly and pulled him towards the cafeteria. “You don’t have to save everyone, Stiles.”

He bit his tongue but fingers tapped against his bag strap at the thought of the missing girls, at the thought of his friends in trouble. When they walked into the cafeteria he saw Scott and Isaac already sitting at one of the tables, Allison walking towards them. “Yeah, but if I can save my friends, I will.”

She tsked, shook her head and pulled him towards the group but before they reached the table she whispered, “I’ll help you where I can. But I don’t trust Derek.”

“He doesn’t trust you,” Isaac said as they neared. “I mean, you did raise his uncle from the dead.”

“When someone takes over your body it’s --”

“Hey,” Scott smiled and raised his hands in surrender, “Past is past, right guys?”

“Not always,” Lydia snapped, then sat between Allison and Stiles. He kept his eye on her, watched her purposely avoid eye contact with Isaac, and to a lesser extent Scott. He wondered how she did it, how she experienced the trauma she had and rarely let the world see a crack. To anyone watching her they would see the same beautiful, confident woman she’d always been. 

“Derek wants you to meet him at the loft,” Isaac said, drawing Stiles’s attention. He lowered his voice, “Apparently he went to a crime scene last night?”

“Yeah,” Stiles nodded, “My dad said there was another dead body. Miranda from homeroom,” he nodded to Scott, “She sits behind you?”

“Oh,” Scott frowned, set his sandwich down. “Man, that sucks. Think it’s--”

“Yeah,” Stiles nodded. “Definitely think it is.”

Scott’s shoulders sank, “Why does this stuff always happens to us?”

Stiles snorted, “Yeah _us_ …and the two dead girls.”

“You know what I mean,” Scott glared, picking his sandwich back up.

“Yeah. I do. Why don’t you tell Derek to meet at my house?” Stiles suggested then glanced at Lydia who gave a single sharp nod.

“Or you can meet at Derek’s,” Isaac replied around a bite of chocolate. “See, it wasn’t so much a request as an informal order.”

Stiles slid a hand over Lydia’s arm, leaned close and whispered. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No,” she sighed and turned herself away from Isaac and Scott, linked her fingers with Stiles’s and smiled. His heart didn’t skip a beat when she smiled, but it did melt and he fell in a different kind of love with her. “I asked to be brought in to this. I’ll help if I can. But I won’t be alone in the same room as Derek. Or his uncle.”

“No one wants to be in the same room with Peter,” Isaac added then let out a _woof_ when Scott elbowed him.

“Thank you,” Stiles murmured. He squeezed Lydia’s hand, released and felt a small victory for the first time since his dad had been called to Annie’s crime scene. Between a genius, a hunter, three werewolves, and his own supernatural research they had to be able to figure this out before the next girl was taken. 

He ignored Deaton’s warning; right now his focus was on the next girl. He looked around the cafeteria; it could be anyone.

~~*~~

After school he waited in the parking lot and watched the others walked towards him, like some kind of John Hughes reject movie. The princess, the hunter, the jock, the puppy. What did that make him?

“Ready?” Scott asked, unhooking his helmet and straddling his bike. Stiles nodded then leaned over to unlock the passenger side door. The lesson had been learned, he thought, no more wayward werewolves letting themselves in for “chats.”

“We’ll meet you there,” Allison said and pulled Lydia towards her car. 

“Guess they don’t like the company,” Isaac grinned. “It’s just you and me.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and started the engine. “Just don’t stick your head out the window, I’ve heard it’s bad for your eyes.”

“Ha. Ha.”

Stiles smirked and, out of the corner of his eye, saw Isaac smile and lean back as he pulled out of the parking lot. Their friendship, tenuous at best, was somehow edging close to where he and Derek had been last year. Reluctant, banter-based, a few threats of claws and wolfsbane but both of them willing to take a bullet. Or, he glanced over again, he hoped so.

They pulled up to the loft as Scott was locking his bike, then watched Lydia and Allison pull up next. Lydia took one step out of her car, looked up and around then grimaced, “How long as Derek lived here?”

“Long enough,” Stiles replied and led them inside. He raised his hand to knock just as Derek slid the metal door open, eyes finding Stiles immediately then turned his gaze at Lydia and Allison, Isaac and Scott, then back to Stiles. 

“It’s like the Breakfast Club, Beacon Hills edition. Don’t worry,” he said and slapped Derek’s shoulder as he passed, “You’re totally Bender.”

“Great,” Derek muttered then turned his attention back to the others. “Why?”

“Because you apparently need our help,” Allison said and took a step forward, and in that moment Stiles saw why Scott couldn’t get over her. She’d consciously, or unconsciously, put herself between Derek and Lydia and was defiantly staring into the eyes of a werewolf who had tried to kill her and whom her father had tried to kill (multiple times). 

“We don’t need--”

“Actually,” Stiles cut in and waved, “I do. I could use someone who is fluent in classical Latin and has a 4.0 GPA.” He ignored when Lydia smirked and stepped into the living room. “And since apparently Deaton thinks it could eventually be my ass on the line, I’m not taking chances.”

Derek shook his head and stalked into the kitchen, leaving them in his wake. “Why don’t you guys just,” Stiles pointed to the small love seat and table, “get settled. I’ll go grab Grumpy.”

In the kitchen he found Derek leaning against the counter, brooding into a mug. “You brought Argent’s daughter.”

Stiles flinched then nodded. “Yeah, about that--”

“It doesn’t matter,” Derek cut in, set the mug down and moved to walk past.

“No,” Stiles said and stepped in his way; he reached out and pressed his hand against Derek’s chest. They both stopped, Derek looking from Stiles’s hand to his face and Stiles staring at where his hand met Derek’s chest. He looked up, took a step closer, then dropped his hand. He lowered his voice, fully aware that half of the other room could be, and probably was, listening. “I didn’t think about that. But we need all the help we can get and I trust Chris Argent’s knowledge about demons more than I trust Deaton at the moment or your fairytales about them.” Derek raised an eyebrow then stepped the side and leaned against the counter, “My dad went to Deaton before the second disappearance, before we went to him. So he had to know something was going on.”

“But he didn’t say anything,” Derek replied and looked into the living room. 

“Yeah, and I think he’s going to go to Deaton again about the other one.” Stiles nodded, “But right now I’m willing to see anything the Argents might know about demons.”

“I’m not holding my breath,” Derek muttered. He exhaled and waited a few seconds before following Derek into the living room. Then rolled his eyes when he saw Derek glaring at Allison and demanding to know what she knew about demons.

“I..um..I don’t--” Allison stuttered, eyes wide.

“Nice,” Stiles said and sat on the floor by the table. He pulled his notebook and the spell book out, then looked at Allison. “Do you or your dad know anything about them? How to hunt them? How to summon them? Anything could be helpful.”

“We’re not summoning a demon,” Scott and Derek said in unison. Stiles rolled his eyes but kept his focus on Allison. 

“Not that I know of,” Allison whispered, then cleared her throat and sat up straighter. She talked to Stiles, ignored Derek. “But I only found out about all of this today; I can check tonight.”

“Do it without bringing your father into it,” Derek ordered and Stiles saw her eyes flare but the rebuttal stopped on her tongue. 

“I’ll do what I have to,” she said finally and Stiles took the opportunity to go over the spell again, to bring Derek up to speed and to go into some more detail about Adramlech. He pointed out the similarities between the spell Lydia had noted earlier, then some possible ways the spell could be doctored. He’s done some research during Latin and during his free period.

“The other girl--”

“Miranda,” Scott added.

“Miranda,” Derek amended. “They found her last night and apparently there’s another girl missing.”

Stiles frowned, “So soon? What girl?”

“I don’t know. Your dad was at the gi--Miranda’s crime scene when the call that another girl was missing came through.”

“Which means he’s escalating,” Isaac said, sinking lower into the couch cushion. 

“We have to find them,” Scott said, looking from Derek to Stiles and Stiles didn’t want to be the one to reach over and tell Scott was it was too late. That the other girls had been killed sooner rather than later in their disappearances. Instead he nodded, full of lying hope, and turned to Derek.

“Either way,” Derek continued, he paced behind the seat Lydia had taken. Stiles watched Lydia track Derek’s movements out of the corner of her eye, “that means that we have one more girl’s death until the final one.”

Stiles swallowed, “Self.”

Derek stopped, nodded, then gripped the back of the chair. “No one goes anywhere alone.”

“You can’t--” Lydia stopped when Derek rounded on her, crouched down to her eye level.

“Who do you think is going to be next, huh? He’s killed three girls.”

“Two,” Scott interjected.

Derek continued like he hadn’t heard him, leaning closer to Lydia over the soda, “From what Stiles and Deaton have worked out he’s taken joy, faith and innocence. What’s left?”

“Pride,” Stiles answered and saw where Derek was going, a chill raked over him. 

“Who has more pride than a prom queen with a 4.0?” Derek asked, eyes still on Lydia. “Who walks through the halls like the queen bee?”

Lydia swallowed and angled her head away from Derek but kept her eyes on his. “There are plenty of girls who--”

“We’re dealing with a demon whose main qualities are pride and vanity, Lydia, I know who I’d kill.”

“Derek,” Scott warned and Stiles scrambled over to crouch by Lydia, then grabbed her hand.

“Lydia,” Stiles whispered and waited until she looked at him, he heard Derek stalk away. “He isn’t right. But--”

“I know,” she said and crossed one leg over the other. She looked at Derek and crossed her arms across her chest, her cheeks rosing slightly. “You might know who you would kill, _Derek_. It seems to be in your family’s nature to try and kill me.” Stiles ignored the way Derek flinched as he reached out for her. Stop, he wanted to say. “And while you might have an unhealthy knowledge of students as Beacon Hills you can’t possible know every high school student in the area. I, for one, can think of at least three _prideful_ high school girls that attend St. Agnes’s school alone. More prideful that I am.” She sighed and shook her head, then turned to Stiles. “So, what, I’m bait? Again?”

“Yes.” 

“No.”

Derek and Stiles said at the same time. Stiles glared over at him and was pleased that he looked slightly ruffled, Lydia’s point had hit its mark. Then he continued, “No. You just need to be on alert. Maybe stay with Allison?” He looked over then back when Allison nodded. “And when you’re not with her, stay close to Scott and Isaac.”

“Isaac would hand me over to be sacrificed before the creep even came looking,” Lydia snapped and Isaac flinched. She turned on him, pointed a finger, “Or am I wrong? I seem recall someone saying he wanted to kill me even if I wasn’t the kanima.”

“I didn’t--”

“It was a small classroom. And you aren’t as subtle as you think you are.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, calmly, and ran his hands down Lydia’s arms. He took a breath and took her hands in his, “We’re running out of people to keep watch. There are going to be times when Allison and Scott can’t make sure you’re safe. And the killer … he took Annie on her way home, a twenty-five minute walk that she took nearly every day. He took Miranda from her backyard, we think. And the other girl?” He looked over at Derek.

“Coffee shop, 5th and Vine was where she was last seen.”

Stiles shifted until he was on his knees, leaned back and rested against his heels, “He could be anyone and isn’t afraid to take his victims from places they feel comfortable.”

He watched her face contort, change as she worked through possibilities. It was, Stiles thought, a display of beautiful resignation. He hated that this was her life. “Fine.”

Stiles nodded, pulled out his phone and began typing, then held up his hand when Lydia began to question him. A second later her phone buzzed, she glanced at Stiles then her phone, then rolled her eyes and opened the text message. Then laughed as she read, covered her mouth and nodded: _We cn make dog jokes when Isaac is on shift ;-)_

“So what do we do in the meantime?” Allison asked drawing attention from the giggling duo.

“Scott and Isaac can check out the school,” Derek replied. “See if they can see anything, get a feel for anger or smell anything off.” He looked to Isaac who nodded and grabbed Scott, then pulled him towards the door.

“Dude!” Scott exclaimed and tried to yank his arm free, he looked at Stiles and Allison then stumbled back when Isaac pushed him again.

“We’ll let you know,” Isaac said then closed the door.

“You two can go to Allison’s dad,” Stiles said to Allison and Lydia, “see what he knows about demons and how to stop them. We need to see what our options are, and how we can trap the demon.”

“What about you?” Lydia asked, standing and straightening her skirt down.

“I’ve got more research to do and I want to go over this spell some more.”

“I’ll let you know tomorrow what my dad says,” Allison said to Stiles then looked at Derek, “I won’t lie to my dad, Derek, but I won’t bring him into this unless we need to.”

Derek nodded and he waited until the girls left before turning to Stiles, “You wait at home.”

“No,” Stiles said, drawing out the word as he stood. “I’m going to research some more then see what else I can do. Maybe check out the crime scene.”

“And what do you think you’re going to find out that I didn’t?” Derek demanded, took a step forward. Instinctively Stiles wanted to step back, but he held his ground and kept his eyes on Derek’s. He felt the tension in the air as heavy as the fear of the demon. 

“I don’t know! And that’s the point, I won’t know until I get there.” 

He bent down for his bag then moved to walk past Derek, when Derek’s arm shot out and grabbed him. Derek’s fingers tightened slightly and Stiles turned into the pull, he seemed to always turn into it. This was the second time in as many days that Derek had grabbed him, the second time he’d forcibly stopped him from leaving. And the second time he hadn’t moved out of Derek’s touch. This was becoming a habit, between both of them. 

He licked his lips, watched Derek trace the movement while his own lips thinned. When Derek let go and stepped back, and Stiles stayed where he was. Derek took another step back, eyes flicking from where he’d grabbed Stiles to his face. 

“It’s always this. It’s always someone from your school or someone from my past. If this killer needs a male body, I don’t...it doesn’t have to be you.”

“But at least we know what to do, at least we’re prepared,” he said. 

“Do we? What do we know to do, Stiles?”

One of Derek’s hands fisted at his side and Stiles desperately wanted to reach out. “Why did you believe me? About it not being just a random murder?”

“Because you’re usually not wrong,” Derek answered. “I’d rather listen now than figure it out at the last minute.”

Stiles nodded picked his bag back up and smirked, “Well, you do usually run in and save our asses at the last minute.” 

“Don’t make me save you, Stiles,” Derek whispered. “Don’t go to the crime scene tonight.”

“Fine. I won’t go to the crime scene.” He raised his hands in surrender, backed up a step then another, then stopped at the door and turned. “I’m not going to die, Derek. Just because some psychopath has murderous delusions of grandeur doesn’t mean he’s actually going to get what he wants. They usually don’t.”

He slid the door closed behind him, rested his head against the metal of the door. He decided to skip the elevator, took the stairs two and at time, and threw his bag in the passenger seat. He sat a few seconds before lifting his head and looked up at the loft but he couldn’t see Derek, or Derek’s shadow. He straightened and exhaled, cracked his neck from side to side, then started the car. 

He wouldn’t go to the crime scene. Derek was right, what would he see? And, knowing his father, a cop car would be loitering nearby ‘just in case.’ He glanced at the clock and gauged his time, shifted the jeep into gear. When he got on the highway he thumped a beat against the wheel and sped passed the few cars still on the road. 

He knew of two magic stores in the Beacon Hills area, one would be closed by now but the other one was probably still open. He could scout them out, check out their supplies, maybe see if they carried magic sage (if that was a thing) or peacock feathers. He kept his eye on the road and exits but let his mind wander. 

Where would someone actually get a peacock feather from? The zoo? Order it online? Did it have to be magic? He changed lanes and veered for the exit. Did magic stores even carry bird feathers? Was it specifically peacock feathers? Did other demons rely on other birds? What about other animals? 

He pulled in front of what looked like a strip club or a dingy vacant lot; a dirty gray exterior covered in graffiti and grime. Twelve months ago he wouldn’t have believed that Beacon Hills had its very own supernatural emporium, let alone a second one. He pushed his way inside and felt an easiness flood over him. He tried to hold onto the urgency, the reason he’d come into the store, but as he took another step he felt soothed. Magic, he thought, was definitely kind of cool. And creepy. 

“Good evening,” a plump woman said from behind the counter, her purple hair was pulled in a tight bun that lay nestled on the top of her head and silver earrings winked from her ears. “Can I help you find something?”

Stiles stared, and he’ll admit later that he was torn between lust and curiosity, then pulled himself together. “Yeah,” he leaned on the counter and smiled. “I’m looking for sage.”

“Ah,” the woman nodded and her earrings twinkled again. “A popular herb, although it’s best untouched and best harvested in the later months of the year.”

Stiles hummed, filed that away for later, “But you have some?”

“A have a bit,” she replied and walked around the counter, she led him down an aisle to the left. He stopped a few times, reading names and picking up jars and vials. He tapped his way down the aisles, then noticed something glowing out of the corner of his eye. He flinched when she came up behind him and took the vial from his hand. “The spark of an alpha werewolf is a very rare prize.”

“Werewolf?” he wondered and looked back at where the vial had glimmered a rose color. She nodded and ran her eyes over his face, then down his body. He wanted to back up, cover himself and back slowly away.

“Maybe you shouldn’t leave it next to the eye of newt then,” he managed and watched as she put it back in place. She turned back with a smile, a slow grin that made him swallow audibly.

“Most wouldn’t be able to touch even the glass containing that spark,” she took a step forward and Stiles retreated back, she raised his chin with a single finger and looked at him. Her skin chilled him and her smile, deepening as her eyes raked over him, frightened him. “What kind of magician did you say you were?”

He tried to step back but found his body locked, she took another step and leaned closer. He felt sweat dampen the back of his neck and he wondered he anyone could hear him scream. “Not a magician, just...just … just a kid.”

She leaned back and shook her head, slide her finger over his lips. “I find that very hard to believe.” She looked back and Stiles looked at the shelf then met her eyes. “Just a kid wouldn’t even seen the vial, let alone the ugly spiraled mess of a spark.”

“What happened to the alpha that belonged to,” he wondered.

The woman stepped back and his body released; immediately he took two steps back and wiped his hands on his jeans. She smiled a crooked smile that made him want to turn around, “Not a clue. I’m merely a seller.”

She turned and began walking down the aisle again, and Stiles was sure he was meant to follow. He looked at the vial again, thought he saw the pink light pulse slightly, then followed after her. At the corner Stiles grabbed her and ignore the shock that came when she turned, another smile playing on her lips. “You might be a seller, but you have to know what happened to the werewolf.”

“You are absolutely full of surprises,” she laughed and removed his hand from her arm. “I would assume he or she died. It is, after all, not the most pleasant way to suppress a werewolf. The sage is this way.”

Stiles followed, careful to stay more than an arm’s length away, until they stopped in front of a seemingly endless row of green. She plucked a bottle and handed it to him. “This has been untouched by human hands and is, I’m sure you know, the best for any spell a young practitioner might try.”

“Then how?” he took the jar and held it up to the light. It looked like the sage in his father’s kitchen.

“Many ways. Anything else?”

Eyes still examining the sage, he asked, “Peacock feather?”

“A summoning spell,” she smiled, clearly pleased, and Stiles’s attention snapped to her. “I have one left.”

“That seems...a bit short supply,” he tried for nonchalant but at her look he figured he failed. He followed her down another aisle.

“Peacock feathers are harder to come by, especially for proper use.” He hummed in agreement and watched her pull a cloth from one of the shelves, then used the cloth to pull a feather from a dark box. She lay the feather and bottle of sage on the counter and looked up, “I could always offer you a deal.”

Stiles stilled, eyes slowly going from the green and blue feather to her. He estimated it would take him twenty seconds to reach the door. “What kind of deal?”

“Like I said, it is rare for someone so young to sense the spark of an alpha. Even more rare for the spark to awaken like it did. I could give you these two items, plus anything else you need. For an hour of your time.”

“An hour?” Stiles asked, already pulling away. He stopped when she dropped her hand to his, her fingers sliding down his arm and her nails scratching over his skin. 

“Just an hour.”

“You know,” Stiles smiled and pulled his hand free, felt welts rising where she’d dug in, “I’m going to think about that. Definitely something to think about. Maybe next time. Right now I just need the peacock feather and sage.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, were her eyes changing color? Her voice had changed, was it deeper? Softer? He struggled to focus on her. “I have many other interesting items in the back.”

“Nope. Noooo. I’m good.” He pulled his wallet out and slapped forty dollars on the table, then reached for the clothed feather. “Good. Really good. Just needed two things.”

He backed up, felt for the door handle and pushed it open. 

“You’re always welcome here, Stiles,” she waved. “A gift like yours shouldn’t be ignored.”

He didn’t answer, just fell out the door and ran to his car while trying to catch his breath. He jerked into reverse and sped back to the highway, looking in the rearview mirror every few seconds. It wasn’t until he reached the exit for Beacon Hills and his breath slowed that he realized he hadn’t told her his name. 

He pulled onto his exit, then onto the shoulder and let out a long breath. He let his head fall to the wheel then turned around and looked out the back window, half-expected to see the witch pull up behind him. He looked down at the passenger seat and the sage and feather, “Now what?” 

He shifted back into gear and drove around aimlessly, trying to force fit the pieces of the puzzle together. Trying to stop his heart from pounding in his ears. A killer, feathers, sage and incense, the victims. And, of course, demons. He’d obviously gotten his ingredients from the witch - and Stiles assumed the killer had gotten the other ingredients from her as well — but now Stiles had the last feather. What did that mean? He found himself pulling into Deaton’s parking lot, and into the spot between Deaton’s old truck and Derek’s Camaro. Would she order another one? Could you special order peacock feathers?

He looked at the Camaro and groaned. He could pull out and drive home but he was sure Derek had heard him pull up. He heard the backdoor open, looked up and sure enough Derek stood with his arms crossed staring at him. He grabbed the feather and jar, put his Game-Face on, and hopped out.

“Hey,” he waved, “We have _got_ to stop meeting like this!”

“I told you to go home.”

“You told me not to go to the crime scene,” Stiles corrected. He walked up to Derek and felt the uneasiness of the drive lessen with each step.

“I told you to go home, Stiles.”

“I agreed to not go to the crime scene,” he amended, grinned, then shrugged. “I made a pitstop.”

“At,” Derek frowned and looked down, “a witch?”

“Magic store, actually. Did you know we have two of them in Beacon Hills?” He pulled open the door and walked in, saw Deaton already at the examination table. “And the one I went to had a peacock feather. Her last one, by the way.”

“Where did you go?” Deaton asked. He pulled the clothed feather to the light and examined it. “Fine quality.”

“Yeah, cost me forty bucks. And the store on the other side of town?”

“That’s quite a discount,” Deaton replied, eyebrows raised. He took the sage and held it up to the light. “For both?”

“Yup,” Stiles nodded, the word popping as he tried to lean against the counter in the back. He ignored how the back of his neck tingled. “The woman was super nice.”

“Super nice?” Derek asked from beside him. 

“Yes,” Stiles snapped. “Super nice. She liked me and gave me a discount.”

“I am concerned,” Deaton interrupted, “that your killer has been using similar quality materials. Identical, I’d say, from the feathers your father has shown me.” Stiles bristled and moved to step closer then stopped when Derek grabbed him.

“Why didn’t you tell us that before?” Derek asked; Stiles pulled his wrist free and rubbed his other hand around it.

“It didn’t seem prudent to bring the police investigation into something that is, clearly, beyond their capabilities,” Deaton rested his hands on the examination table and for a second Stiles hated him. Hated that Deaton kept secrets, hated that his father came to Deaton as a friend, hated that he was keeping the same secrets from his father. For a long second, he hated everything happening in the vet’s office right now. 

“Maybe if you told him something that could actually help,” Stiles said and smacked his hands on the table, felt the metal vibrate under him and Derek’s hand suddenly at his neck.

“And what would you suggest I say?” Deaton asked with a rare flash of anger. “That his son’s best friend is a werewolf? That all those things society has taught him to ignore and forget and think are false are actually real and running around the streets of his city? What about what the next thing comes in town and looks for someone who knows about werewolves and can’t fight back with supernatural strength?”

“What else?” Derek asked quiet, he dropped his hand and leaned against the cabinets. 

Deaton looked one more time at Stiles, then to Derek. “I would say that you are running out of time. Three girls are dead?”

“Two dead, one missing.” Stiles corrected.

“Let us presume three dead. That leaves one more and then the Self.” Deaton held up the feather, “And you’ve bought the last feather.”

Stiles took the bundle and he stepped back. “The killer could have bought five at once.”

“Yes, he could have,” Deaton agreed.

“But you don’t think so,” Derek said.

“I don’t know and, at this point in time, I wouldn’t want to assume anything. I wouldn’t, if I were to cast a spell such as this. The ingredient matters as much as the ritual.”

“Come on,” Derek said, tugging Stiles back, “I’ll follow you home.” 

At the door Stiles stopped, took a breath and turned back. Deaton was still behind the table, watching them. He didn’t want to look at Derek, didn’t want to see the wariness that would inevitably come, so he purposely turned away and towards Deaton. “Can you take a werewolf’s...alphaness?” 

Derek tensed beside him, and Stiles hated that as well.

“It is a painful process,” Deaton answered, looking from Stiles to Derek and back. “And one that is rarely successful. Why do you ask?”

“The store I went to had a vial. It was red and looked like an ink blot with tentacles. It was floating in the vial, I didn’t see anything else. But it was glowing. The woman, um…the witch, said it was an alpha’s spark.”

Deaton made a noise that Stiles couldn’t decipher, “Like I said, it can be done but at a great expense to the werewolf and the one taking the spark. To my knowledge, the few times it has worked the werewolf hasn’t survived. You say you saw it? Held it?”

“Yeah,” he nodded and felt Derek’s attention on him. He purposely ignored it. “Held it--or whatever—in a vial.”

Deaton made another sound, something between a hum and an ‘ah’, but Derek was already pushing Stiles backwards and out of the office. “You were supposed to go home,” he growled when they were outside and the door closed. “Not go to some witch.”

“Well, now we have something,” he waved the feather and jar in Derek’s face. He stormed to his jeep, fully aware that Derek was half a step behind him, and tossed them into the passenger side. “We know where this guy is getting his materials, we know now _for sure_ that it’s a summoning spell. And besides, I was just checking--”

“You reek! Of exhaustion and fear,” Derek said, leaning close and wrapping his hand around the base of Stiles’s neck. Stiles rested his head against the rim of the door, nodded, and waited for Derek to freeze and jerk back, or for Derek to slowly pull away and put the shield back in place. He wasn’t prepared for Derek to rub his thumb in a small circle, to step closer. He wasn’t prepared for the exhaustion to be pulled from him or from Derek to ask, “What made you afraid? You smell of fear, Stiles.” 

“Nothing,” he sighed and turned; his surprise increased when Derek kept his hand - and Stiles - in place. He rolled his head from one side to the other, enjoyed for a second the feel of Derek’s hand on him. 

“Stiles, I can see where she touched you,” his said; his eyes flared red and down over Stiles’s arm and face. He dropped his hand and turned his Stiles’s over to show the welts were still raised and still red. 

“It was nothing,” he mumbled, suddenly overly aware of how close they were and how exhausted he was. His breath caught when Derek lifted his chin, slid his finger over Stiles’s lip like the witch had done. 

“Stiles.”

He clenched his jaw and stepped back, but not away, slouched against the jeep and stared at his feet, Derek pulled his hand back and he immediately felt the loss. “Apparently an alpha’s spark is rare. And people can’t see it.”

“But you did.”

He nodded, “Yeah. I did.”

“What else?”

“One mystery at a time, big guy,” Stiles looked up and tried to laugh, tried to push Derek back, then choked around the sound. “I don’t know. I left. I ran. She wanted to make an exchange, I threw down all the money I had on the counter and left. Happy?”

“No. What kind of exchange?”

“I don’t,” his breath stuttered and he wasn’t entirely sure it was because of the witch. “I don’t know. She wanted me to go in the back.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Of course, I didn’t,” he shot back and shook his head. “Like I said, one mystery at a time.”

Derek nodded and stood back. Derek sighed, “I told you I didn’t want you to getting hurt.”

Stiles straightened and ran hand over the back of his neck, his fingers brushing where Derek’s had been, “You told me you didn’t want to save me.” 

“I don’t want you getting hurt,” Derek exhaled.

“I won’t,” he whispered.

“You should go home,” Derek said. Stiles nodded, too many thoughts racing in his head to come out. Instead he kept his mouth shut and rounded the front of the jeep, then looked back and Derek saw already walking back to his own car.

“I’m going home,” he called, “You don’t need to follow!”

Derek opened his door and called out, “Just making sure it’s straight home.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes, slammed his door shut and waited until his hands stopped shaking to turn on the engine. Then he drove home, stayed five below the speed limit and waited an extra fifteen seconds at each STOP sign. At each stop he glanced in the rearview mirror and met Derek’s eyes. Every time. This was worse than having his father follow him home. He parked his car in its usual spot, noted his dad wasn’t home yet, and waved when Derek drove past. Derek did not wave back. 

He raced upstairs, dropped his bag at his door, flipped on the light, then dropped the jar and feather to the floor. He groped for his phone and kept his eyes on the bed as he dialed.

“What?” Derek demanded.

“Um...about that not getting hurt thing.” 

“What happened?” He stared at the peacock feather centered on his bed and took a step back. “Stiles, what happened?” He heard the screeched of tires and groped for the doorframe.

“I know why I got the last peacock feather.”

“I’m on my way,” Derek said, “Stay on the phone.”

Stiles nodded then added, “Yeah.” He swallowed and flipped the hall light on, then his dad’s light. Nothing in his dad’s room, he thought with a shiver of relief. He heard a car door slam outside and squeezed the phone. “Tell me that’s you.”

The front door opened and Derek called up, seemed to leap up the stairs. He looked in Stiles’s room, then at Stiles, “I guess we were right about the Self.”

Stiles nodded and followed Derek into his room, hated that his stomach dropped with each step. Hated that his hands shook with fear. He tightened his fist until the pain took his focus then looked over, “What now?”

Derek turned back, shoulders tense, “Call Isaac and Scott, tell them to search the neighborhood.”

“What about you?” Stiles asked, he called Scott and waited for him to pick up.

“I’m staying here.”


	4. Chapter 4

_He crouched low and stayed in the shadows. It was a risk, he knew that. But then again, he was so much greater now. So much more powerful. He wasn’t afraid. He watched Stiles’s light turn on and imagined his reaction, would he immediately see or would he miss it?_

_He hoped fear gripped Stiles so tightly it suffocated him._

_He felt the tips of his mouth pull tight when the hallway light flipped on and almost immediately another light flipped on in the next room. Ah, he tightened his fingers around the tree bark, the little detective found his present. He twisted his fingers again and enjoyed the bite of the bark against his skin, enjoyed the pain that scraped the tips. This was a detour from the others but, then again, Stiles had it coming. And Stiles’s sacrifice was going to be different. The self, HE, was worth such a greater death than the parts._

_But this? Breaking into the sheriff’s house? This had been child’s play. Exactly like Adramlech had promised: the door left unlocked, the sheriff and Stiles away, nothing to stop someone--anyone--him--from walking through every room. From reading Stiles’s books and notes. He’d had plenty of time to stage the room._

_He’d had plenty of time to read what the little detective had found._

_Did Stiles notice the missing books? Did he notice his window open? How long would it take for him to notice that some of pages his were gone?_

_He opened one of the books and skimmed the page; werewolves and hunters. The voice demanded to know why he hadn’t said anything; how could he not know about a pack of werewolves? He giggled at the idea, “Because werewolves are a stupid fantasy.”_

_The silence that greeted him caused him to pause. It was becoming harder and harder to not respond when the voice demanded answers, harder to not feel alone when it didn’t. He pulled the candle from his bag and looked up, blocked the wick with his hand and blew a hot breath against his palm. Then watched the flame ignite. He smiled and felt the remnant energy spark along his arm._

_Another gift, Adramlech teased._

_As the flame flickered and rocked, his anger grew. This was his moment. This was his chance. And Stilinski was too close to figuring everything out. Stilinski was going to ruin everything! He looked at one of the pages in his hand, the ritual to summon a spirit and the notes scribbled in the margins. His hand shook and tightened around the paper, crumpling it into a tiny ball. How did he know? How did anyone know?_

_He hid between the tree and a bush when the Camaro pulled back in front of Stiles’s house, then watched the man run into the house._ And which werewolf is this _, the voice hissed. He didn’t know._

_He watched the man’s shadow cross in front of Stiles’s window, then he poked his head outside. For a second he thought he’d been caught, the man’s gaze stared straight at him. But he couldn’t have. He couldn’t be caught yet. He swallowed his fear and stayed still and low, then the man turned his gaze elsewhere and he took the chance to run._

_He slipped into his car and took a breath. He was in control._

_He was in control._

_He was in control._

_HE WAS IN CONTROL._

You’re in control, _Adramlech soothed_. You’re in control. Show me.

_He shuddered and focused on the tingle that still itched his fingertips. Yes, he thought, he’d prove himself._

_He drove past his house to the old industrial district and parked in his usual place, kept his car hidden from street view. He quietly walked down the stairs and felt his control slipping back into place. This was his. Here there were no werewolves, no snooping teenagers. Here it was just him. Here there was just him and Julie. Here is was just him and Julie and Adramlech._

_He closed the door behind him and listened. She was still asleep but...he shook his head and chuckled, soon it would be the eternal sleep. He slid the knife over her forearm and watched in amazement, he was always amazed at the near black line of blood that immediately trailed the bright silver. He traced Adramlech’s mark on the floor with his fingers and her blood, then pulled the bowl towards him._

_He combined Julie’s blood and his own, closed his eyes and let the Latin fall from his tongue. Adramlech’s rage swept over him, Adramlech’s power consumed him. It whipped over his arms and chest, it slashed down his throat and across legs. He felt the change, all of the promises and gifts culminated into this moment._

_It always took control, it always took over. And he relished in his acceptance of it._

_When he stood, he was more than just Charlie. When he stood, he carried Adramlech with him. He untied Julie and positioned her, and knew he was fulfilling the pivotal third kill. This one connected the others, this one was the peak of faith. When he woke her, when he grinned down at her and wiped away her tears, he was following motions that were already ingrained into his body. There was no thought, just the act. He was more than just Charlie, he was power and strength. He was a god and a death dealer._

Perfect, _Adramlech’s voice whispered from behind him. In front of him. Inside him._ Just perfect.

_He nodded and slid the knife, perhaps too hard, against her skin until the blood flowed. His anger made the words shake and echo against building walls, his desire made the candle flames rise to impossible heights around them._

_In the end, he laughed. She cried._

~~*~~

Stiles looked at his bed again, at the perfect green and blue feather against the striped sheets. “No,” he heard himself say. “Maybe it’s--”

“Not up for discussion,” Derek growled, he wasn’t even looking at Stiles and for some reason that snapped him out of his daze, snapped the fear to the back of his mind. 

He rounded on Derek and cut through the air with this hand, “First, you’re right. This isn’t a discussion, it’s an order and I’m not one of your betas. Second, this is a message. It isn’t a threat.”

Derek stalked to the window, looked out, then shut the window and flipped the lock. He watched Derek and frowned, replayed that morning and tried to remember if he’d left the window open. It was usually fifty-fifty, but he was pretty sure he’d closed it. Right? 

Derek looked over his shoulder, “Well, message received.” 

“Look, I overreacted.” He didn’t flinch when Derek turned back to face him, eyebrows raised. He waited and Stiles shook his head, “I overreacted. Whoever broke in just wanted to send a message.”

He nudged Derek out of the way, unlocked the window and opened it. When Derek tried to close it again, he slapped at his hand then sighed when Derek stopped him and tightened his hands around Stiles’s, “Yes. That someone can break into the sheriff’s house and threaten his son.”

Stiles scowled and looked outside, then shut the window. He hadn’t left it open that morning, he was positive. He hadn’t even gone near the window that morning. He glanced at his bed, felt the fear bubble again but said, “I don’t really think a peacock feather is a threat.”

“It is when--” Derek looked down at Stiles’s phone rang, he answered and scowled when Derek grabbed it and set it to speaker.

“Nothing,” Scott said, his voice filling the room. 

“Keep looking,” Derek demanded.

“For what?” Scott retorted and Stiles heard leaves shuffling in the background. 

“Anything villain-y,” Stiles said then glared when Derek ended the call. “Man, you can’t--”

“How did he get in?” Derek asked, looking at the window then to Stiles. Stiles shrugged, walked to sit on the bed.

“I don’t know,” he fell back, turned his head and traced the edge of the feather with his eyes. 

“I can tell when you’re lying,” Derek whispered and Stiles closed his eyes and fell back, draped one hand to the bed cover and let his fingers slide over the feather.

“I don’t know,” he insisted, then raised his head, “I didn’t leave the window open. I don’t think. It was open just now. Maybe that way? But I don’t know, man. Only werewolves seem to use that as their entry into Chez Stiles.”

Derek dropped on the desk chair and rolled himself towards the bed, “Scott should have smelled something.”

“Wanna give it a sniff? Show who the big dog is?” Stiles said, dropping back down and covering his eyes again. When Derek pressed his knee against his, Stiles pushed back but stayed silent.

“I can’t feel him in here. He’s masking his presence, not just his scent. It feels like you and your father in here, and I think we can rule the two of you out for homicidal demonic summoners. But that’s something strange, most creatures can’t mask their presence like this.”

Stiles swallowed and nodded, fisted his hand around the feather then released when Derek pulled it. “Yeah.” 

Behind his arm he squeezed his eyes shut and thought about his father, about the house, about the bodies. The blood, the stench, the sickening fear that they’d gone through. His nails dug into his palms and he sucked in a deep breath. He imagined Annie, saw the pictures from Miranda’s murder. The two crime scenes blended together until it was black and white, arms and limbs; there was smoke and too much scent. He could smell the sage like it was surrounding him. He imagined Julie staring up at the killer. Up at him. He hated that he had another name, another victim. He imagined himself staring up. He could almost feel the trickle of sweat at his neck, the bubbling fear as the candle light flickered around him. 

His chest hurt, it squeezed with each breath. He couldn’t catch a breath. His arms began shake and when he tried to stop them they only shook harder. He fisted his hands, squeezed until he felt the skin break and a light dampness bleed beneath this nails. He pulled in breath, another. Another. He couldn’t get enough. It was like drowning. Was this what they had felt? He sucked a breath and nearly choked on it. He gulped and tried to sit up, pushed his arms down and gulped. But couldn’t. His body shook and he couldn’t focus. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t make it stop. He couldn’t--

Silence. 

He sucked a breath in one breath, then a second more greedily. His heart began to slow and his breath came out in even sighs. He looked over then twisted his arm and watched the black veins pulse and slide from his arm onto Derek’s. He tried to move closer then gave up as exhaustion clawed its way over him. 

“Didn’t know it worked on panic attacks,” he slurred. He smacked his lips together and tried to sit up again, then fell when Derek’s his other hand nudged him back. After a few second of silence Derek pulled his hand away and flexed his fingers, the black lines flickering and fading beneath his skin. 

“Some werewolves use it to lull their prey into feeling safe.”

Stiles nodded slowly and felt his eyelids droop. He couldn’t lift his head. “Is that what you’re doing, Derek? Making me feel safe? Gonna rip my throat out with your teeth?”

Derek snorted, then pulled Stiles up the bed to his pillows. “Figured me out.”

He nodded, “You’re gonna have to be the one to explain that to my dad. He likes my throat.”

Derek laughed and the sound shook through Stiles, made him smile lazily. Derek shifted him, walked back to the chair then said, voice low, “Go to sleep, Stiles. I’ll hear your dad come home and hide.”

“My, what big ears you must have,” Stiles mumbled, head half on half off his pillow. He felt Derek pull at his shoes, then thought he heard Derek say, “All the better to hear you with.”

“Ass,” he sighed into his pillow.

~~*~~

Stiles woke and found Derek against the wall beneath his window, head back, and for a greedy minute he just stared. He glanced down at his hands and saw the half moon cuts, then turned his hands over and saw thin red lines where the welt had been. He stretched and heard his father downstairs then looked back at Derek.

“He’s been home a few hours, came in here about one,” Derek whispered, eyes still closed and head still back. 

“I’ll bring up some breakfast,” Stiles said, then looked down and rolled his eyes, still in the clothes from yesterday. He changed into a new shirt, then turned and found Derek’s eyes on him. He backed out, paused at the top of the stairs to grab a breath, then headed downstairs where he dad was making pancakes and bacon. “You’re up early.”

His dad nodded, pulled down a second plate and mug, and handed the mug over. “I decided last night, between finding you asleep over the covers in your clothes and me falling asleep at two o’clock in mine, that we’re having at least one decent breakfast this weekend.”

He hopped on the counter and watched his dad mix in the milk, “Any news on the case?” 

When he dad slid him a look, Stiles raised his eyebrows, “Just a name, Julie Henry.”

Stiles nodded, he knew that much from Derek, “And she goes to Beacon Hills?”

The sheriff nodded, added the eggs, “Yeah. Left her ID under the other victim’s body, so we wouldn’t find it until after the scene had been processed. The call about the missing girl came through before the M.E. even arrived.”

Stiles frowned, grabbed a forked and poked at the bacon. “That’s weird.”

“It’s cocky,” he dad said, “and it means he’s escalating. We had barely found the body when the call about the next one came through.”

“Dad, be careful. Okay?” He hopped down, stepped closer and wrapped an arm around his dad’s shoulders, then grabbed the plates and set the bacon aside to drain. 

“You too. It’s only been females so far but I don’t want you taking chances,” he stopped pouring the batter on the griddle and looked over at Stiles, “I don’t want a repeat of that Matt kid in the station. And tell your friends, Allison and the Martin girl, to be careful.” Stiles nodded, thought about what they’d told Lydia last night. “Maybe you guys could hang out here instead of going out?”

“Actually we already have plans to hang out at Scott’s,” he lied and watched his father accept it. “I think everyone’s on edge.”

“They should be.” His father passed one of the plates and nodded to the syrup. Then, they talked about anything but murder: school, lacrosse, homework, other non-fatal crimes. Old man Jurson was complaining about the mail boy again, Mrs. Grawland had sent a strongly worded email about “those young kids” running down the alley at night. 

The sheriff stood and left his plates in the sink, grabbed his badge, gun, and keys. At the door he turned, “Be careful out there. I know you’re trying to help but I don’t want you to get wrapped up in this.”

Stiles nodded, thought of the feather last night and Derek sitting in his room. “‘Course not. I’ll be the safest sheriff’s son in town.”

The sheriff huffed a laugh and shook his head, when Stiles heard the cruiser’s engine start he grabbed a plate of food and jogged up stairs, found Derek reading over his print out and hanging up the phone.

“Where’s the summoning ritual you printed up?” he asked.

“I dunno. Somewhere in that pile. Who was that?”

“Scott,” Derek said, frowning. “I’ve just looked through these. It’s not here.”

He rolled his eyes, passed Derek the plate and grabbed the pile, then sat on his bed and began flipping through. He glanced up, “Did he find anything?”

“No. Neither did Isaac. We’re meeting at the loft in half an hour,” Derek answered between bites. Stiles frowned, went through the pages again, then swallowed and heard the pulse of blood in his ears. He jerked when Derek touched his arm, grabbed the papers before they fell.

“It’s not here,” he mumbled.

“Maybe you put them--”

“No, Derek, it’s not here. As in it’s gone. As in--”

“Okay,” Derek stopped him and raised his hand. “Okay. Maybe they were taken last night, anything else missing?”

Panic scraped at his mind, his vision blurred for a moment then almost immediately sharpened. He looked down at Derek’s grip then relaxed his fist, gently pulled free from Derek’s hold. “Thanks. I don’t know. There were a lot of books and pages. I mean,” he ran a hand through his hair and looked around, “Everything was here, I just don’t know where,” he pointed to his head, “Organized chaos.”

Derek nodded and looked around. Stiles followed his gaze, eyed each of the piles of books and tried to remember how many had been in each. But he didn’t know. He couldn’t remember. It wasn’t like he kept track of each book, each print out, each notebook, each pile. He just knew where they were when he needed them. He dropped the papers on his bed and went to his desk, picked a few things up and nodded. It was almost painful how quickly the ball of ice had resettled in the pit of his stomach. The new normal, he figured, was living with terror in his belly. 

“There’s a book missing,” he whispered and heard his voice crack. “A beastiary on werewolves that Deaton let me borrow.”

He felt Derek come up behind him, the heat against his back when Derek reached around him and straightened some of the mess. “It isn’t your fault. You couldn’t know someone was going to break in.”

“I shouldn’t have left it out,” he shook his head and turned around. He sat on the edge of the desk and shook his head, bit his lip and picked at his thumb. Stupid, he thought, stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Hey,” Derek tapped his thigh, waited for him to look up. “Not your fault. None of this is your fault. This is some kid playing with things that shouldn’t be played with.”

“But what am I even doing?” he ground out, ran his hands through his hair and pulled. “We haven’t stopped him from killing. If anything, he’s escalating. Three girls in two weeks.”

“We’re trying to stop the demon. That is the important thing,” Derek said, calmly. “This killer might be escalating but the demon isn’t. It isn’t even out yet. He has two more victims and,” Derek nodded towards the feather, “he’s set his sight on you. You, we can protect. It will be worse if the demon gets free.”

Stiles nodded and sniffed, “Yeah. And you promised to not let me die.”

“And you promised not to get hurt.” They stayed like that, still in the moment, for a moment too long when Derek pulled back. “We have to go.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Demons to fight. Asses to save.” He stepped around Derek and took a few breaths, tried to calm himself. He grabbed the printouts from the bed, the books that had fallen to the ground, and his backpack.

“Grab a change of clothes,” Derek said as he pulled out his phone, he sent a text then looked up when Stiles stopped and dropped his pack. 

“And why am I doing that?”

“Because you’re not staying here tonight,” Derek replied already focusing back on his phone. Stiles wondered if he was actually texting someone or avoiding another argument. 

He rolled his eyes but grabbed an extra changes of clothes, he looked back at the window and shuddered. A sociopathic murderer with a demon complex, had been in his house. In his room, had been through his things. He had left a threat — albeit not the most fear-inducing one — had left his window open and his room vulnerable, and had stolen his possessions. What else had he done? What other rooms had he been in? He grabbed a second shirt and boxers, then nodded at Derek. “Who’re texting?”

“Isaac,” Derek pocketed his phone and double checked the window, then stepped closer. “They’re at the loft.”

He nodded, grabbed Derek’s plate and left it in the sink before they left. He turned back around and stared at his home. Derek followed his gaze. “I know it’s stupid but...no one has ever broken into our house before. Peter and Jackson, even Gerard. No one broke in.” 

“Takes a lot of confidence to break into a sheriff’s house,” Derek replied and Stiles nodded.

“Yeah,” he shouldered his bag and turned back around. “Confidence or arrogance. And he's going to need more than confidence and a fucking fashionista demon when I’m done with him.”

The drive to the loft was silent, Stile lost in his mind. He tried to go back to the other night when he’d been researching. He tried to remember the books and how he’d arranged the papers. It was useless, he knew, but it kept him from focusing on the intrusion itself. They filled the others in on what had happened, most of what had happened at the witch’s store (Stiles resolutely refusing to talk about the spark or creepy proposition proposal) and the feather on his bed. 

“So, that was our night. How about you guys?” he asked with a sardonic grin. Scott shrugged and Isaac shook his head.

“We didn’t find anything. At the school or your neighborhood.”

“We found some information about demons,” Lydia interjected and pulled her bag closer.

“And more information about summoning a demon,” Allison added, “Stiles, you were right. If a human summons a demon, it’s more than just wish gone wrong. If you summon a demon, especially one as powerful las Adramlech, he...almost plays with the human. It’s a game to him. It.”

“Part of his power comes from the soul, part of it comes from the sacrifice itself,” Lydia added. At Allison’s nod she flipped open her iPad and continued. “Adramlech is known for giving his followers, for lack of better term, attractiveness and power.”

“Makes sense,” Stiles noted, “he’s known for vanity, right?”

“Right. So with each sacrifice this killer will gain a better physique and probably a greater intelligence. But that isn’t his ‘wish.’ Adramlech tempts human by giving them something else, something other demons can’t offer.”

“Like love or health,” Derek said, sitting on the arm of the chair, beside Isaac.

Lydia barely glanced over before continuing, “Something like that but probably something related to vanity or physical strength. I don’t know what this guy wanted but he’s probably getting more attractive and smarter with each killing, and after his final victim he’ll be given his ultimate prize.”

Stiles closed his eyes and tried to focus on everything. Physical appearance, intelligence--it could be anyone in school. Hell, even with a make-over and a math tutor Greenberg could snag someone. He ran his hands over his face, pressed the hells of his palms against his eyes until colors burst into the black. 

“God,” he moaned into his hands, “Who wouldn’t want that though? Doesn’t everyone want to look better? Be more popular? It could be anyone at school. What do we do now?”

“Well,” Isaac leaned back, “Use someone as bait?”

“No,” Derek said before the others could react. “No one acts as bait.”

“Did you find anything on actually summoning a demon?” Stiles asked Allison. She nodded and turned from her position on the floor to face him.

“My dad, who was only _slightly_ suspicious about why I was in our library looking up demons,” she said glancing at Derek then back to Stiles, “suggested a book one of my ancestors...acquired.”

“Stole,” Stiles smirked.

“He didn’t specify,” she sniffed. She pulled out a book and flipped to a marked page, then handed it over, ”But you can summon a demon. If the demon has bound itself to a human vessel, like the killer, and we have something of his, then we can create communication with the demon. The earthly item acts as a type of grounding point for the demon. It won’t lead us to him but we might be able to talk to him, trick him into revealing something.”

“But how?” Scott asked. “We don’t have anything of his.”

“We have a feather,” Lydia said, pointing to where Derek had set it on the table. 

“And we could use his vanity to make him talk,” Stiles added, already trying to think of ways to make Adramlech squeal. Lydia squeezed his knee and smiled. 

“In the meantime,” Derek said, standing and pacing behind Isaac, “We need to keep an eye out on Lydia’s house.”

“And the school,” Allison added. “If he is someone at Beacon Hills High, he has to be someone we know.”

Derek nodded. 

“But what can we do now?” Scott sighed, he dropped his head back against the sofa and slouched further down. “There has to be something. We can’t just wait.”

“Maybe Deaton?” Isaac suggested. “He’s helped in the past.”

Stiles flicked a glance at Derek and shook his head minutely. 

“It can’t hurt,” Allison said, already standing and pulling Scott to his feet. “Maybe he’ll have some more information about demons and summoning them. Stiles?”

“Yeah,” he rubbed his knees again and shook his head. “I actually wanna look over this book, if you don’t mind. We should see what he says though.”

Allison shrugged and slid her hand into Scott’s, then looked at Isaac and jerked her head towards the door. Before she stood Lydia leaned over and kissed his cheek, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Stiles grinned, forced his shoulders to slag and leaned back, “Please, what stupid thing could I possibly do?”

She shook her head, “I’m beginning to wonder what you can’t do.”

He watched her follow the others out then turned back to Derek, found him in the seat Isaac had left. “Why didn’t you want to go to Deaton’s?”

“Why didn’t you?” he countered, sitting on the arm of the sofa.

“Because Deaton’s been stringing us along,” Derek confessed. He leaned back and crossed his legs at the ankles. He raised an eyebrow and Stiles nodded.

“He had to have figured it out before we got there the first time. And if he’d known about a way to summon a demon, even one like Adramlech, he’d have told us. I hope. Or he was saving that for someone else.”

“Scott,” Derek nodded. Stiles leaned over and picked back up Allison’s book, slipped his finger to keep his place then looked at the cover. A wolf was embossed on the leather, flames licked the air behind it. The Argent insignia embossed beneath. 

“Charming,” he muttered then turned flipped through a few pages. It looked like something between a beastiary and history book. He glanced up and saw Derek staring at him, he waved the book and smiled. “We could--”

“No.”

“Why not?” He flipped back to the page with the spell and glanced at the feather. “We have something of the vessel’s, we could use the demon’s vanity. You know I can talk people into things.”

“We already went over this. We’re not doing something where you, or anyone, could get hurt,” Derek stood and glared at Stiles before he strode into the kitchen and yelled back, “Purposely setting yourself up for getting hurt is the opposite of what we’re trying to do here.” He came back with a beer and coke, tossed the coke to Stiles and opened his beer. 

“But you’d be here,” Stiles noted. “Like a guard do…wolf.”

“The answer is no, Stiles.”

Stiles didn’t growl, but he did sigh - loudly - and slide down to lay on the sofa. Fine, he thought, no contacting the demon and charging him with astro-projection accessory to theft and astro-projection accessory to breaking and entering.


	5. Chapter 5

_After he finished, he snapped his fingers and extinguished the flames that encircled the body. Power pulsed at his fingertips, it hummed with each step. He could feel it in the air around them. God, what had he been missing? This. This feeling of power, this sensation of belonging, made everything fit together. He was stronger, better. He was starting to feel complete. He was starting to feel whole._

_How had he lived before this?_

_The building was decrepit and he knew in a few years the entire block would be demolished for new apartments and storefronts. He looked around him at the exposed metal and cracking brick and knew he could change it. He knew he had the power to create comfort and beauty in the room. He didn’t need it, but he could do it. And that was power. He looked back at the girl’s body and shook his head. He wasn’t a monster, he thought, he could appreciate the loss of life. But part of him toyed with the idea of leaving her, letting the mystery of her death linger in Beacon Hills._

_No, the demon screeched. Screeched loud enough that Charlie balked and stepped back._

_No._

_He knew he couldn’t leave her here. It was too close; too close to his plan, too close to his space. And while he was enjoying watching the Sheriff and the police run around like lost children, he enjoyed their frustration and helplessness when they discovered his bodies a hell of a lot more._

_He laughed, cackling as the image of Sheriff Stilinski stumbling over his own son came into his mind. Yes. He’d sacrifice self, he’d sacrifice that troublesome — WEREWOLF HIDING — brat. After he took Pride. The prideful bitch that was too close to helping Stiles figure him out._

_He knelt beside Julie and straightened her hair. He’d take his time moving this one._

Not too fast, _the demon soothed._ Bask in your power, child. Hide her, this is the apex of our time. 

_He nodded to himself and brushed her bangs from her pretty face. The cross at her neck hadn’t protected her, he thought. Her pleas and prayers hadn’t sent angels down to save her. Because He was the god, he was the one with the power. He was the bringer of death, the giver of life. And this was only the beginning._

_He left her, already planning on how and where to leave the body. The walk up the stairway was quiet, he’d long ago learned the steps that creaked under any weight. But then he wondered if they would even creak now, now that he could control them. He could control everything._

_The drive home was short, the lights turning in his favor and the traffic moving out of his way. It was cosmic. The sense of power was more than flickering candles to light or transforming his body into a near Adonis-like sculpture. He barely remembered the bumbling boy who couldn’t remember a simple equation or conjugation. The boy who was ignored, who couldn’t even make second-string. That wasn’t who he was._

_He was power._

_He was control._

_He didn’t bother calling to his parents, they’d long since stopped bothering him. His power over them was barely an effort. In his room back home he pulled the marker and the yearbook from their places and crossed over Julie’s smiling face. Most likely to be found, he thought with a cackle._

_He glanced at the calendar and grinned, felt his skin pull too hard across his face. He had all weekend to display her. He had all weekend to move her from the shadows. He had all weekend to create her memorial._

_This was his moment. This was his sacrifice to Adramlech, to the boy he was and the man he had crafted himself into being._

_He looked back down at the yearbook and at his next sacrifice. Pride, he thought, cometh before the fall._

_The fall of self._

~~*~~

How could things like Chemistry and surprise quizzes still exist when the world, or at least the senior class of Beacon Hills, was falling apart? Stiles skimmed his homework, surprised it made any type of sense then nodded when Charlie sat beside him.

“Think it’ll be another pop quiz?” Charlie asked with a sigh, Stiles nodded again and barely glanced up. Seriously, this kid needed to spend a night with a youtube channel or pay for a tutor. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Charlie’s homework and was mildly surprised that their answers for the first few questions of the homework matched up. 

Huh.

“Alright, insufferable malefactors. It’s Monday, another pop quiz, and please for the love of God will some of you actually put chemistry as your answers? Your inability to answer basic questions is making me question your generation,” Mr. Harris bemoaned as he began handing out quizzes. He reached Stiles and scoffed, then shook his head. Then handed one to Charlie and whispered, “Except you, Mr. Harper. A+ work on the last quiz.”

Charlie mumbled a thank you, blush reddening his cheeks, and for a split second Stiles was torn between confusion and begrudging pride for the guy. Then he had the chilling realization that Charlie was the killer. He leaned closer then fell back when Harris coughed over Stiles’ shoulder. It wasn’t Charlie, he reasoned, couldn’t be. The guy could barely register the pH of a simple acid, let alone figure out how to conjure a demon. 

At Charlie’s groan and repeated erasure of his quiz, Stiles shook his head at the thought. One good quiz score did not a demonic conjurer-serial killer make. 

Stiles turned his quiz in with a flourish, a wink, and stretched himself in his chair while he waited for the lecture to begin. Then pulled out his book, and his phone, and began scouring the new for the latest on Julie and the others. It had been two days since he’d seen his dad, and not for lack of trying. The department was in a frenzy and his dad was at the center of it. They hadn’t found the body yet. 

After Chemistry Stiles followed Lydia to the library and set up camp in their usual table; far back corner with their backs against the wall. 

“Did you talk to Deaton about cleaning your house?” Lydia asked without looking up from her book.

“No,” Stiles replied, “Why would I? It’s not like you can banish a human.” He paused then tapped the page she was reading, “Right?”

Somehow Lydia could make a sigh and smile look both endearing and exasperated. “No. But he could make sure the demon isn’t there.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and went back to his own reading, another Argent historical beastiary, “No thanks. I’m sure it’s fine. Derek said he couldn’t sense it, I doubt you can cleanse something you can’t sense.”

They both looked up when a group of students walked by, one of them complaining about their Spanish test while another tried to one-up him with a history paper. Is that what high school was supposed to be like, Stiles wondered. 

“You don’t like him, do you?” Lydia said moving her chair closer and closing her book to read from his. She lowered her voice and made sure they weren’t drawing attention. 

“Who? Derek?.” 

She tsk’d and pulled the book between them. “Don’t play dumb with me, Stilinski. Deaton. The others haven’t noticed, or haven’t said anything. Why did you really stay behind with Derek?”

Stiles felt his heartbeat in his ears and focused on the words in front of him, or rather he focused on the same three words until he could move beyond them. A dozen reasons, he wanted to say. “Derek and I were just at Deaton’s and he didn’t have anything, or didn’t say anything. I figured if something new had come up Scott would let me know.” 

“Why do I feel like there’s more?” Lydia asked, head down and making notes on her tablet. 

Stiles bit hit tongue. Because he’s always lying? Because he was constantly keeping things between him and Derek from the others? Because he doesn’t help the police? Because the next victim in any of these ridiculous situations could always be his father? 

Deaton might be the gatekeeper to all things supernatural, but Stiles was quickly realizing he was second string to that position as well.

“Because you’re as paranoid as you are gorgeous,” he replied instead. Lydia rolled her eyes but smiled, like he knew she would. 

He pulled up the Beacon Hills police bulletin on his phone and scanned the latest reports, nothing that seemed related to the killer or their demon. Then he scrolled through the latest news and stopped at the second headline: _INSTITUTIONAL CURFEW? WEIGH IN NOW._ He clicked, because of course he had to, and read the news channel’s decree for a town-wide curfew for high school students and those eighteen or younger. Be in before dark, or the boogeyman will get you. 

That could put a damper on things, if the media swayed the public and if the public swayed his dad. Which, he thought, was a strong possibility. He read another paragraph, then read it again. Either exhaustion was taking over or the words were blending together into nonsense. 

“We need a break,” Lydia sighed. “This thing is dense. And I haven’t seen anything that can really help us.”

“Outside of the communication spell,” Stiles said. 

“Which we aren’t doing.”

“Which we aren’t doing,” Stiles repeated. 

Which Stiles was totally doing. Maybe with Derek’s help. Probably not. He laid his head down on the table and listened to Lydia gathered her things. Together they walked to last period and listened as Mr. Jenkins talked about World War II, then bolted out when the final bell rang and headed toward the parking lot. 

The next few minutes would replay in Stiles’ nightmares for the next fifty years, at least. Lydia waving to him, her red hair catching the sun as she turned away; him throwing his bag into the Jeep; the sound of screeching tires and screams, metal scraping against metal, gasps and calling for help. He turned back in time to see Isaac landing on his back with Lydia tight against his chest, a dark car careening away, students and teachers running towards them. 

Stiles ran to the others and dropped to his knees, “You okay? What the hell happened?”

Lydia stayed against Isaac’s chest and breathed deep. Her eyes were eye and she looked like she was edging towards shock. “Who was that??”

Stiles looked at the damage in the parking lot and felt his hands begin to shake. No way there wasn’t going to be a curfew now — another student accident? In broad daylight? In the school parking lot? 

He tried looking at the students who had crowded around them, who was there and who wasn’t, but it was useless. Face blended together and Isaac’s groan drew him back. His back and neck looked scratched and Lydia had finally pulled herself together, and pushed herself off of him. But she was close and she was looking at Stiles with a fear he hadn’t seen since Jackson.

They were officially fucked. 

Stiles watched the police cars, his father’s and a second, speed up to the school. There was a moment where his father locked eyes with him in the crowd and moved on, and in that moment Stiles was struck with another wave of helplessness. Lydia had been moved to the nurse’s office and assessed, and he’d been not-so-politely told to leave by the school nurse. He’d leaned against the wall for about seven minutes (might as well have been seven hours), then his mind had spiraled into every possibility about who could have purposely driven to a school and tried to run over a student. When he reached the point of the demon itself driving the car like an oversized bat out of hell, he pulled himself up and went outside. 

The crowd was still gathered, the basketball team and the marching band were milling around in the most transparent attempt to see what had happened. He nodded to Isaac and Scott but left them to their own devices. He couldn’t deal with Scott’s shock and apology right now, and worse he couldn’t deal with another McCall justification. Hadn’t he warned that this was there kind of deal? Hadn’t he said so from the start? Hadn’t he said they needed to start an offensive rather than defensive approach? 

So he sat on the hood of his jeep and watched everyone. Then watched his dad grab something from his cruiser and go back into the school, with bags under his eyes and the weight of the town still heavy on his shoulders. Stiles made a mental note to send pizza (Vegan Goddess Delite) to the station. 

He watched the scene then stiffened but didn’t turn back. 

“Another attack?” Derek asked, and for a brief moment Stiles was worried his father would look over again. He nodded his affirmation and kept his eyes on the scene.

“Yeah. Lydia. Some car came barreling through the parking lot outta nowhere, straight for her.”

Derek didn’t say anything, was quiet for long enough that Stiles had to turn and look. Still there. Staring at the tire marks and bystanders … and something else? What would a werewolf see that he couldn’t? Could he smell something? Sense it? 

“We can’t let another kid get killed, Derek,” he said as he turned back. The deputy had come out and had started interviewing the students milling around. Scott and Isaac were nowhere to be seen. “I’m not letting Lydia get killed because we were too chicken to do what needs to be done.”

“We aren’t calling the demon, Stiles.” Beside him, he heard beat a steady thrum of fingers against metal.

“But you’re thinking of something,” Stiles concluded. When the thrumming stopped he looked back and found himself alone.

Typical.

He jumped from the jeep and noticed his bag was gone. He frowned and looked around. He quashed the panic, needed to keep focused. He knew he had left it in the jeep, had someone taken it? He pulled open the back and started looking under lacrosse equipment and trash, could feel sweat dampening his neck as he yanked crap out of the way. 

Someone had his bag. 

Someone had been in his car. 

Someone was watching him while his friend was nearly run down. 

He’d been there the whole time. He glanced back to the tire marks that led to where the deputy’s car was parked. Except when he’d gone over Lydia and gone to the nurse’s office. 

It was one thing to know this killer was a student, it was another thing to have it slammed in his face. A chill balled in his stomach and he fought to ignore it. He wasn’t safe. He wasn’t safe on his own, he wasn’t safe in his school. 

No one was safe.

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he saw the text from Derek demanding a meeting, he scrolled and saw Scott, Isaac, Alison and Lydia were also included. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the flash of strawberry blonde hair and the smudge of brown uniform, Lydia caught his eye while she spoke to his father. All smiles and sweetness, he watched as she wrapped her father around her little finger and bounded off. No, sir, I’m not hurt at all! I’m sure it was just a distracted driver, aren’t we all distracted right now?

He waited until she came over and watched, the facade dropping step by step. By the time she reached him … well, there wasn’t fear in her eyes but she had lost the confidence and bravado of his Lydia Martin.

“How’d that go?” he asked.

“Always the gentleman, Stiles. You Stilinski boys are awfully careful around little old me,” she tried to smile but kept her eyes on him. Before he could retort she leaned her head back and closed her eyes, letting the sun shine on her face, “I don’t know that he believed me though. I told him I was fine, just a few scratched and I get worse during cheer season.”

Stiles waved to his father as he drove by, “That’s what every parent wants to hear.”

His father pointed at him then back to himself then back to Stiles. I’m watching you. Stiles waved him on with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, that rolled his head from one shoulder to the other. 

“So, why aren’t you running to Derek’s like the others? I figured you’d be the first one there.” Lydia asked as she walked to the passenger side of the car. He stopped her, a hand covering hers, and bit his upper lip. 

“My bag was taken from my car.”

Lydia furrowed her brow and looked through the window, “Are you sure? When?”

“Of course I’m sure. And I don’t know, I’m assuming during your mild-nothing-worse-than-cheerleading scare.”

Lydia scoffed and adjusted her own bag, “So let’s find it. You’re sure you didn’t leave it in your locker?”

Stiles stopped and had to resist screaming. “Yes, Lydia, I’m sure I didn’t leave my bag with supernatural incarnations and demonic inscriptions and my homework in my locker.”

“Well, you don’t have to be snippy about it. I nearly died just now.”

Stiles’s retort was cut off when Isaac came up and started to open the jeep’s door. “We going?”

“We need to find Stiles’ bag. Someone took it.”

Isaac frowned. “Who would take his bag?”

Stiles paused and wondered how Derek put up with all of them. He looked back at Isaac and very slowly enunciated each word, “Maybe the guy who has been summoning demons and killing students.”

Isaac shoved him against the car without a word and began walking towards the school. Rubbing at the spot on his chest where he was sure a bruise would be forming by tomorrow (thanks, Isaac) Stiles jogged to catch up, “Where are you going?”

“To your bag, idiot.”

“How do you know where it is?” Lydia asked. She looked around, carefully dropping her voice as a couple of students walked past them. One pointed at Lydia and looked away. 

“Because Stiles is the only student in the school, besides Allison, that carries wolfsbane in his bag,” Isaac replied and Stiles nodded, impressed. “And you can smell that shit from a mile away. Or down the creepy stairs to the basement. Sure you didn’t go to the basement?”

Stiles looked down and ignored the shiver that grazed his spine. “Definitely didn’t go down there.”

“Don’t worry,” Isaac winked, “You have a big, bad wolf will protect you.”

He headed down the stairs with Lydia and Stiles on his heels. “So you can make jokes but I can’t?! And, are we really going with ‘big and ‘bad’?”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Isaac whispered around a laugh. “Your bag didn’t get here by itself.”

They found the bag in the corner, in a puddle, with the top pocket wide open. Stiles ran to it, pulled the pocket open further and began going through the papers. He pulled everything out, flipped open his binders, then went through them again. His vision tunneled to the bag, the pages, the puddle, the dark. He could hear his breathing speed up, he could feel tears of prickling his eyes as he threw pages on the floor and picked up another binder. He could feel his hands shaking until they weren’t, until Isaac’s hand was on his neck and he was crouched beside him. 

“What’s missing?”

It was Lydia who answered, “Your notebook. The blue one with the notes on the spell, right?”

He collapsed onto the floor, his butt hitting the damp ground with an audible thud and nodded. 

“So, we go back over the notes we do have. And Lydia’s note,” Isaac flicked a glance at Lydia then back to Stiles. “And we figure out the next step.”

He let go then and the world crashed around Stiles, but he ignored it. He rubbed at the spot Isaac had been touching and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, we can do that.”

Together they gathered the pages Stiles had thrown to the ground and, after a quick sniff (or sense, Isaac corrected), they started back up. As they reached the parking lot Stiles stopped Isaac, “Why did you,” he gestured, “you know, hand thing me?”

“Hand thing?” Isaac laughed. “I just calmed you, you’re annoying when you start panicking.” He pulled open the door and crawled into the back, then stuck his head out. “I might not do this whole pack thing, but if anybody is going to mess with you it’s gonna be me. Or Peter.”

“Great,” Stiles said with a smile, “My own personal bully gang.”


	6. Chapter 6

_  
The car was a nice touch, he thought with a grin. Shame it missed, but then maybe it would be better when he took Lydia himself. He didn’t need to hide now, he didn’t need to stay inconspicuous. He was just a boy at school. He was just going about his business. He was just a boy, going about his business, watching a_ werewolf _leap to the aid of some prissy little bitch._

_He watched Stiles drop his bag in his car and run. He left his bag. The idiot left his bag where anyone could take it. He walked towards the blue junker and barely glanced around before slipping it over his shoulder and continuing back to the school._

_He looked back at the trio and saw the end of his journey. His final sacrifice and his self. Himself. He ran back to the school, other students were running for shelter and he knew he’d blend in. He stopped by the stairs to the main doors and looked back. McCall and some others were there now. Like a misfit Scooby Doo gang - complete with a scrappy mutt or two._

_The weight of Stiles’s bag grew tiresome and he knew where to leave it. This wasn’t about the spells, this was about teaching the sheriff’s stupid kid that he wasn’t any better than his dad. This was about sparking fear in someone who was going in too deep. He bit the side of his mouth to stop from laughing. It was so easy. Everything was just so easy now._

_He left the bag, grabbed the first notebook he could see and nearly whistled as he ran back up the stairs. He felt the power slide over him. Yes, he was still in control. He was still the one with the power._

_He turned down one of the hallways and listened as the police sirens neared, the hallways were empty as the students had started going back outside. Safety was being restored, he thought with a sneer, the Beacon Hills Police were on hand. Those losers who couldn’t even see what was right in front of them._

_He pushed his way into the bathroom and used his power to lock the door, to ensure that he was alone. He stood in front of the mirror and called upon Adramlech, then quelled the excited when the demon appeared almost instantaneously. It was easy, it was all so easy. Did Adramlech look smaller? Did he look lesser?_

_God, it was all fitting into place. He saw his reflection beside the demon’s image, he was stronger looking. He was greater._

_‘Did you kill the girl?’ the demon whispered in his ear. The image in the mirror looked at him but he swore he felt the breath against his neck._

_”Not yet,” he answered and turned to pace away. Movement. Control. “I will though.“_

_The demon stared at him and he felt a rage boil within him. Fire licked at his fingertips and ice scraped along the soles of his feet. A shiver of something clawed down his spine and he felt a different kind of power as the demon changed before him. Gone was the proud and gloating demon. A terror with eyes like pitch and a grimace that stretched from ear to ear replaced his image in the mirror. If it was meant to scare him, the demon had failed._

_He waved a hand between them and the demon was gone, the stench of brimstone and sulphur hung dully in the air. Then he laughed, he laughed until he had to press a hand against the tiles for balance. Demon, the conjurer of deceit, the bringer of desire and fear, was nothing more than an angry image summoned for his needs. He would finish the spell, he would finish taking the power owed to him. In his own time._

_He would rid himself of the demon._

_He was become more than the demon promised. He was going to become a god among insects._

_There was no end to his power, to his strength. This was just the beginning._

~~*~~

Stiles was mostly silent during the meeting. Scott was leaning against the chair that Allison was sitting in. Isaac and Lydia were on different ends of the sofa, a quasi-truce established with the near death save. Even as her legs were crossed as if to maintain distance between them while he was spread out with one arm draped across the back of the sofa. Derek was broo— standing by the window, looking out, while Stiles sat cross-legged at the small coffee table that he’d filled with notes and print outs (new ones, thank you), and a few opened books. Derek began talking to the window and, Stiles assumed, knew that the others would shut up and listen. 

He hated this part. 

Yadda, yadda, ya. We need to stop the demon, we need to be smart, we need to stick together, we need to not bring the Agents into this even though one of them already is. Nobody needs to be a hero, nobody should go out alone. He waited until the others had stopped arguing, feigning interested in the Agent book, adding the book to the not-relevant pile on the table. 

His palms were beginning to sweat. He really hated this part. He could probably write the script for how the next few minutes were going to to go down. 

“Something you want to add?” Derek asked slowly, casually leaning on the doorjamb that led into the kitchen. For a moment Stiles took in the sight, the lines under Derek’s eyes were hidden and his stance was slouched and relaxed. For a moment he looked like a regular guy, hosting an irregular get together. The moment was broken, though, when he stepped forward and the weight of the world settled back on his broad shoulders. He picked up the book Stiles had put down and glanced at the cover. “Or have you just been reading that book for the page-turning content? What is this one? A thousand ways to kill a werewolf?”

“No. I just think you’re wrong.”

“I’m wrong,” Derek repeated, “Of course. You think we should call the demon.” 

“Yes, well, no. But yes. I think we need to do something. We’re just running around picking up the pieces. What happens the next time this guy breaks into someone’s house? Is he going to just leave a creepy bird’s feather or something worse? And what about what happened at school today? Some are going to say that it was kids pranking kids, but we know that isn’t the case. There is no coincidence in murder. We can’t just wait, we need to act. Do something. ”

“Offense, not defense,” Scott added with a wink. 

Stiles stared then rolled his eyes, “Yeah. Thanks, Scotty. We can’t just wait for the next body to show up. And I, for one, really don’t want to go to Lydia’s funeral,” he ignored her gasp, “or my own.”

“I second that,” Lydia raised her hand and nodded when Allison raised hers as well. 

“Let’s take a vote then,” Stiles said already raising his hand. “All those in favor of calling the demon and _doing_ something, raise your hand. All those against, scowl into the corner.”

Lydia’s hand shot up again before he’d finished the sentence, quickly followed by the others. “Sorry, Big Guy. Looks like we’re going to call a demon. Remember, this is a democracy not a Derocracy.”

“Where do you plan on doing this?” Derek asked, focusing on Stiles. He took a step forward and the room shrunk. “And more importantly, how? I don’t know how to call a demon, do you?” He turned on the others. “Do any of you? This isn’t something we can just do spur of the moment. This isn’t something that some potion is going to weaken. And what about if it works? What then?”

“I know that,” Stiles exclaimed. “And I’m thinking.”

“What about Deaton?” Isaac asked. “He might have an idea, he promised to look into it when we went to him before. Maybe he has something new.”

Derek didn’t look at Stiles but Stiles felt the needle pricks on his neck. After a moment, Derek answered, “Deaton would have mentioned something if he knew how to summon a demon.”

“I think we should still ask,” Scott piped in, already standing. “He knows everything on werewolves and the supernatural, he has to know something on demons.”

Stiles bit his lip, did _Deaton_ know everything on werewolves? Not the werewolf brooding in the corner? Derek remained silent and gave Isaac a brief nod, then he and Stiles watched the others (some more excitedly than others) grab their belongings and head out. Lydia lingered and waited by the door before turning around, “Deaton might not have the answers, but he might be better than pouring over old books and trying to piece together riddles from another century.” She paused and stepped out of the loft then looked at Derek, nodding towards where Stiles was still seated. “Don’t let him do anything too stupid.”

Then she was gone, before Stiles’ shriek could form or Derek could reply. “Anything too stupid? What does that mean?”

Behind him Derek huffed a laugh then walked to lock the door. “Pretty sure she means stupid like going to a witch’s store alone or crime scene with a killer still on the loose.”

Stiles scoffed, “She doesn’t even know about the witch.”

“Not the point.” Derek sat on the chair nearest to where Stiles at. “If we do this, we do it here. And we have to have a way to stop the spell.”

“Like a safe word?” Stiles grinned and waggled his eyebrows.

Derek ignored the bait and grabbed one of the books. “I want as much information as you can find on summoning demons.”

Stiles tried swallowed the question he wanted to ask, like a lump that wouldn’t go down. He cough and bit his tongue, huffed then put his hand on the book Derek had yet to open. “What about Peter?”

“What about him?” 

“We could ask him for help.”

There was a long minute where Derek stared at him, and for a moment Stiles wondered if he’d grown a second head or if Peter was standing right behind him. “You want to ask my uncle for help.”

“Of course not! He’s a creepy; the creepiest creep that ever rose from the dead. But … Derek he survived a fire that was started with wolfsbane.”

Derek stood, “I’m aware of what he—”

“He survived and he became an alpha, he knew things that helped him gain power. He was able to creep into Lydia’s mind. He knows things you didn’t know, things that Deaton didn’t know. Maybe he could…”

“Maybe he could, what, Stiles” Derek turned around and his eyes flashed red. “Maybe he could help us? What do you think a sociopathic power-hungry narcissist is going to do when offered a demon who feeds of power, narcissism, and greed?”

Stiles swallowed and nodded, “True. I hadn’t thought about —”

“You never do!” Derek spread his hands wide and stormed out of the room, only to come back in. “You don’t think about the consequences, you just act. And, yes, it’s helped us in the past. Yes, I get it. But, Stiles.” He breathed. “Your house has been broken into, presumably because you’re the sheriff’s son and you’ve been poking around where you shouldn’t be. And if Deaton is right, then you’re on that list. I’m not willing to risk it. I’m not going to look at your father, knowing I helped you invite a demon into that big brain.”

Stiles stood and shook the fear from his shoulders, “Derek. I am nobody’s victim. If I can live through your crazy uncle, Allison’s berserk grandfather, and Lydia’s psychotic ex; the odds are in my favor.”

Derek sat on the edge of the chair and breathed, when he looked at Stiles there was more than worry in the look. “How many lives are you going to use up because of us?”

Stiles glanced at his phone when it vibrated on the table, a text from his father demanding him to come home. Citywide curfew must have passed, he thought blankly. He grabbed his bag and walked over to Derek, rested hand on his shoulder and waited until the other man looked up, “How many are you to use saving us?”

He left before Derek could respond, and he knew the answer. It was the same as his. 

As many as it took. 

Stiles hated that the entire drive home he kept looking in the rearview mirror. No one was following him, no one would be stupid enough to follow him to his home where his father was waiting. The same way no one would be stupid enough to break into his house, he chided. The police cruiser sat empty in his driveway but a sense of relief flooded over him as he pulled up next to his father’s vehicle. 

He had already put together the lie for the night when he saw his father at the dining room table, case files fanned out in front of him. His dad barely looked up before taking a deep pull from his coffee. 

“Heard about the curfew?” he asked in lieu of greeting.

“Yeah,” Stiles replied. 

The sheriff looked at the wall clock then to his son, “And yet you were out past it.”

“Technically,” Stiles stammered, “I heard a rumor it would happen but nothing solid.”

“And you think a student attacked in broad daylight during a time when students are being killed wouldn’t solidify that rumor.”

“I think,” Stiles drew out,”that a father might assume his son would think that. But that would make an ass out of said father —“

“Watch it, kid.”

“And son.” He sat across from his dad and pulled one of the files, then pulled it again when his father smacked his hand away. 

“So does this son have any ideas on this case he isn’t supposed to be working on?” 

Stiles stopped and looked at his dad; he’d seen it earlier but now the purple shadows under his eyes hung low and deep and his face was too thin and pale. He was hunched over the table in a way that made Stiles sit up straighter and wince at the same time. Growing up in Beacon Hills, he thought, was murder on the body. 

“Did you get the pizza the community sent to the station?” Stiles asked.

“We did, thanks,” his father smiled, “but next time the community could sent a meat lovers or at least a pepperoni.”

“The community is thinking of your arteries, dad.”

He grinned when his dad shook his head and laughed. He debated how much to tell, if anything to his dad. How could he say he thought it was a kid, because he thought it was a demon? How could he tell his dad that anything he was looking into was so far from the right path he probably wasn’t even in the right zip code?

“I think Lydia is going to be the next target,” he blurted out then hung his head. Okay, so that was one way to tell his dad.

“The Martin girl?” his dad asked, interest piqued. “Why? Because of today?”

“Yeah, it’s weird right? Like you said, in the middle of kids disappearing and ending up dead someone tries to steamroll the class president and cheer captain? What are the odds?” 

His father bit his lower lip and Stiles watched a series of reactions cross his father’s face, until it settled on lost confusion. “Son, tell me what you saw and what really happened.”

His dad pulled out a notepad and uncapped his pen, and waited. Confused, Stiles relayed what had happened. What he knew his father knew. On this he could be completely honest, he even added the part where his bag was taken and found. 

“Go back, again. You were at your car. You heard a commotion and saw the car, describe it.”

Stiles frowned, “I don’t know, dad. It was a car. Dark sedan,” he closed his eyes and tried to think back, “Green, maybe? It wasn’t black or dark blue. It had color to it. No license plate.”

“What else?”

Stiles opened his eyes and grabbed his dad’s coffee mug, inspected the remnants of coffee and gagged when he saw grinds at the bottom of the cup. He needed to move, needed to do something. 

“Dad, what’s going on? I’ve told you everything.” He set the mug in the sink and poured two glasses of water, then went back to the table.

“Have you?”

“Yeah. Lydia wasn’t hurt, I just came from studying with her.”

“Do you think she could tell me anything about the driver?”

Stiles shook his head, “No, I don’t think so. She didn’t mention it.” But then, for some reason he hadn’t thought to press her on it. 

His dad pulled out two files and set them in front of Stiles, tapped one. “Open that.”

Obeying, Stiles flipped open the file and looked through pictures of the scene. It was like he remembered: students gathered in groups, some walking towards the commotion while others were walking back to the school, a few teachers gathered around Lydia, tire marks on the pavement where the car had barely missed her, papers she had been carrying were caught in the wind and in the puddles in the parking lot, he could make out his Jeep in the background of a few of the pictures. 

“I don’t know what I’m looking at,” he admitted.

“Those were taken when I got there. Deputy Hillman took those when he got to the scene. And that’s what I remember seeing when I drove up.”

“I’m not following, dad.”

The sheriff nodded to the opened file, “Those were taken from Beckett portable camera when he arrived.” He tapped the other file, “These are the official pictures the techs took as we were leaving.”

Stiles opened the second files and flipped through the pictures: students? Fewer than the first, but check. Teachers and Lydia? Check. Papers? Check, Jeep? Check. Tire marks? 

Stiles flipped between the pictures then lay them side by side. “Where the hell are the tire marks?”

“Language,” his father chastised without heat. “That’s the thing. I went back to the school on my way home and there weren’t any. No tire marks, no evidence of the accident. No one could have cleaned them; I mean, why would they? But they’re gone. There were there and now they aren’t.”

The pit of Stiles’ stomach dropped as another piece to the puzzle slid into place. He licked his lips and looked at the pictures again. He leaned back and dragged his hands over his face. 

“Dad,” he started then stopped, he didn’t know what he was going to say. He looked back at the images. He needed to drive by the school himself, maybe drag Derek or Scott. 

“I’m lost on this one,” his father admitted. “I don’t know what is happening, I don’t know how something like this can even happen.” How this keeps happening, his father didn’t say. 

Stiles took a deep breath and began to jiggle his leg and tap a beat against his thigh. What did this mean? There had been a car, he’d felt the ground shake as it had sped past him. He’d heard the crunch of metal as it slammed against the curb. He dragged his other hand across the back of his neck and squeezed. Then he let go, brought both hands to the table.

“You should check out the Emporium on West Elm,” he croaked out, then repeated the name and wrote the address down with a shaking hand. 

His dad looked at the address and picked up the paper, “What is this?”

Stiles stood and grabbed his bag from the back of the chair, “I don’t know if it’ll help you, but you should check it out.” He took a step back, then another. “I think this may be bigger than the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department.”

“Stiles…” his dad looked over at him and shook his head. “An emporium? I don’t understand.”

“And I can’t explain it right now.”

He turned and ran up the stairs, listening and grateful that his father didn’t follow. He text Derek and sat with his back against the wall. He’d just given his dad his first breadcrumb to the supernatural. And now he was about to summon a demon.


	7. Chapter 7

_  
He was giddy. Excitement and power shook his hands and he was sure his grin stretched from ear to ear. He had nearly killed her, but had only scared her. He had scared them all. Death and destruction were his legacy, death and destruction followed in his wake. And he was merely a face in the crowd. Just a bystander like the rest of them._

_For now._

_Soon they would know his name, soon they would fear when he stepped into a room. He glanced at the candles and ran his hand over the burned wicks of the dead girls. He remembered each of them, he remembered the thrill of his power growing and his need for the demon diminishing. Tonight he would leave he latest girl’s body where the police would find her. His last white candle._

_Soon he would be more powerful than even Adramlech could imagine._

_He wouldn’t need to rely on someone else._

_He closed his eyes and saw the exchange today. Lydia Martin, class president and prideful bitch, walking through the parking lot like a princess. Her gaggle of wannabes behind her. Her pack of damned werwolves in front of her. She practically screamed ‘Come for me’. And he had. He had scared her. He had scared all of them._

_He laughed when the sheriff came; the useless, clueless sheriff with his useless, bothersome son. And he would deal with them soon enough. Right now, the focus was on Lydia. Lydia who was no innocent. Lydia who had no faith. Lydia who brought no joy._

_Soon she would be his. He wanted to watch the pride drain from her eyes as he drained her life. He wanted to hear her scream and beg, he wanted to watch her realize someone like him could take someone like her._

_He looked down and was surprised to find the knife in his hand, but then his power was growing. He was growing. Now he didn’t even need to think of his needs, they came to him. He could already feel her blood on the blade, could hear the last breath as he edged one step closer to finishing the ritual. His life, her life, would soon be bound._

_The plan was already formed. He knew what he had to do. With the others, the goal had been the ritual. She was more. She was years of ridicule, she was class president and valedictorian, she was someone who had never been mocked or laughed at. She was perfect. She was someone who would never suspect him. Or would she? Did Stiles know? Had he figured out his pretty dream girl’s point in the plan?_

_Probably._

_Rage filled him. The whispers of his demon, his pet, slipped into his ear_. Calm now, _the voice soothed_ , focus on the girl. Then Self.

_He was no child. He didn’t need to be placated. He was more powerful than Adramlech. He was better. Stronger. He was more than he had been, and soon he would be more than he could imagine._

_Soon._

~~*~~

He sat with his back against the wall, the window above his head, and he closed his eyes. If his father was any other cop, it would be a safe bet that the emporium lead would be a dead end. But, his father wasn’t any other cop. His father was his father. His father was as Stilinski as he was and if he could put aside his disbelief … well, it would be a fast learning curve.

He heard the window open, no taps or rocks thrown anymore for Derek ‘I’m the Alpha Who Doesn’t Like Doors’ Hale, and barely reacted when said alpha landed softly beside him. He thought barely reacted, but you couldn’t not react when two hundred pounds of muscle and wolf landed beside you. He opened his eyes and nodded to the bed, “Ready when you are.”

Derek sat beside him, a warmth that Stiles very much wanted to lean into. He didn’t say anything, just sat and waited. 

“You know, I just want one year when something crazy doesn’t happen.”

“Crazy comes with the territory,” Derek said at last.

“Yeah, but I don’t get anything fun out this. Scott at least is a badass lacrosse player.”

“Scott also is dating a girl whose father wants to kill him.”

Stiles considered that and nodded, “Yeah, I think I’d rather be bored than in constant fear of being killed …. Oh wait, I get that too.” He thought of Gerard and shuddered. If he could survive a maniac psychopath like Alison’s grandfather, he thought, he could survive this. He would survive this. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Derek said quietly. It was just the two of them and for some reason that made Stiles feel stronger than if the others were nearby. This entire case had come down to him and Derek, and something like this — calling or summoning the demon — should be the two of them. Somewhere along the line he’d grown to trust Derek, and knew that trust went both ways. Even though neither wanted it, and neither fully wanted to believe it.

He nodded and started to stand, then told Derek how he’d told his father about the witch’s emporium. Or rather, an abridged version. Derek didn’t curse, but he got the look of consternation that made Stiles think of their first year and fighting Peter. Reluctance, annoyance, resignation. 

“Do you think that was smart?”

“I don’t know,” he sighed. “But I can’t keep lying to him. And I would rather him find out through me or through something I led him to, than for him to turn around and see Scott wolfed out. Or worse,” Stiles looked pointed at Derek. “You wolfed out.”

Derek nodded and sat on the edge of Stiles’s desk. “My mother used to tell us never let humans know what we were. We grew up with stories of the Salem witch trials and how werewolves would be seen as worse.”

Stiles looked up at that, “Why?”

Derek shrugged, “Because witches were human. Werewolves,” he lifted his hand and Stiles watched it transform to wolf then back, “are not. Humans have a tendency to destroy things they don’t understand. We’re different, and we can survive the ridiculous trials.”

Stiles nodded and stood, then walked to stand next to his bed. 

“You’ll get no tortuous trials in this household, Derek Hale. Except interrogations.”

Derek huffed a laugh, a twinkle coming back to his blue eyes, “Sometimes those are worse.”

They set up the necessary points for the ritual. Candles, as few as they could do with, and salt for protection. A mirror as a window and something from the summoner of the demon. Stiles’s hand did not shake when he picked the feather, he carefully kept his hands from touching the feather itself, having contained it in some left over cloth. 

Stiles listened for his father, knowing that they had a few hours before his dad would head out for the night. 

The spell was easier than he thought, some herbs from Lydia’s garden (and who knew she had such a big garden), the herb from the emporium, and the bed feather. At least that was the way he was thinking about it, that felt safer than “the feather meant to intimidate and scare him” or “the feather meant to mark him”. The candles had been lit, the mirror had been prepared according to Lydia’s strict instruction. There wasn’t any hand holding or chanting. This wasn’t like the movies. 

Stiles had closed his eyes, because that’s what they always do in said movies, and recited the words. He’d practiced them with Lydia and knew the pronunciation like the back of his hand. He repeated the words in his mind, with each word spoken he repeated it in his mind. Calling to whomever would listen, his desperation grew as the spell progressed. All in all, it was pretty underwhelming. 

Until it wasn’t.

Suddenly he was alone in a still darkness. The flames flickering in front of him and the circle of white all that stood between him and another. He wondered where Derek was, but as he looked around he saw black. Just him and another. And darkness. The demon was tall and wide, his costume flamboyant with feathers and silks around his cape. Jewels adorned his chest and lined his clothing where buttons would be, gold glinted at his belt. It was beautiful, not grotesque or fearsome. Stiles found himself wanting to cross the barrier to him.

Seductive, his research had told him, but he hadn’t been prepared for the mere appearance to draw him in. For a moment he felt for the killer, how could an unprepared person resist?

“And who are you, human, to call upon one such as me?” the demon asked, his eyes twinkling in the darkness. They weren’t black as Stiles had envisioned, they weren’t horrid. The demon’s eyes reflected clear blue, like a summer’s sky. They were calming and kind. Stiles stood and followed the path of the demon, safely inside the confines of the salten circle. 

“I think you know,” he answered, hating that his voice shook on the last word. “Adramlech.”

The creature grinned, transforming the seductive appearance to one of malice. “You know my name, boy, but you have me at a disadvantage. And I do hate that.”

Stiles nodded, “I don’t really care what you hate. Who are you working for?”

That stopped the demon, “For? Why, my child, I work for no one. I work for me.” The last word he laughed and stepped forward, then stopped at the salt and Stiles was relieved to see that that little urban legend of the supernatural was true. For a moment Stiles thought he saw a flicker of rage but then it was gone, replaced by that kind and serene look. The demon stepped back, flattened the silk of his shirt back into place. Cheerful, relaxed. He gave the air of someone Stiles could trust, of someone Stiles wanted to trust. 

“I think, young human, that you should be more aware of whom you summon.” The demon took a step back. “Do you think this folly is out of my control?” Another step back into the shadow, his voice beginning to echo in the distance. “Do you think I do not have control of a single pathetic human mind?” Another step and the grin shifted, not like before but enough to cause a shiver down Stiles’s back. “Do you think I have not planned for the greed of man?”

Stiles watched him take the final step into the shadow and then he was alone. He ran a hand along the back of his neck and squeezed his other hand into a fist. Nothing. The spell gave them nothing. He blew out the candle in the center of the circle and was immediately transported back to his room. 

Derek was staring at him, wide eyed but still. Was that fear in his eyes? 

“Anything?” Derek asked, he leaned forward and blew the center candle out and Stiles was struck - hadn’t he done that in the …. Other world? Nether world? What had that been?

“No. I mean,” he stood and stepped out of the circle as Derek blew out the final candles. “Yes. I saw the demon, but I didn’t get anything. It was a waste of time.”

“Stiles, you contacted a demon. That isn’t a waste of anything. I don’t think everyone can do that and come back the same. What did it say?”

“I’m not the same,” Stiles rounded, “I’m annoyed. It was a waste of time. All he said was that he was in control. But what does that mean? And did we even doubt that?”

Derek straightened as much as he could and Stiles was thankful, his anger was growing as the sense of uselessness blossomed. He had been so sure that this would be the key. He had been so adamant about casting this spell. And he got nothing. 

“Perhaps we did find something. Maybe the demon has doubts of his own control.” 

He nodded as Derek crawled through the window and got the vacuum to clean up the last of the mess, and left the window open to let the smell of burned wax escape. 

He finished his homework, made a breakfast for his father and left it in the fridge with instructions. He felt jittery, and awake. There had been a moment of energy when he’d crossed form his room to the darkness. That night his dreams were of the girls, his classmates who had died. He had read his father’s case files and those images were mixing with his own overactive imagination. He could smell the candles, he could feel the heat from the flames.

_It’s intoxicating, no?_ The voice said and for a moment Stiles wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or still in the darkness. 

_Human_ , the demon chuckled. _You were practically begging me to come to you earlier._

In his dream Stiles tried to wake up, he struggled to move but found himself locked in place and surrounded by the cries of the dying girls. They were together and each at a point in the circle. There was one empty space, Lydia’s, he thought.

_The prideful one_ , Adramlech answered. _Although perhaps another could take her place._

Stiles focused, he used the tricks Derek had taught Scott about focusing during the full moon. Ignore the immediate, focus on the place. Release your anger, allow everything to flow through you. Don’t lose control, accept it.

He opened his mind and tried to focus on the voice, he tried to focus on the girls. They weren’t in focus, each slightly less in focus than next. Because they had died apart, he realized. He was seeing their final moments, was this the mind of the demon or the killer?

_They scream for death_ , the demon whispered, _before we give it to them. We prolong the death to ensure their essence is preserved. The first is the hardest, and the easiest. Well planned, well coordinated._

Annie, Stiles thought. Her tear-streaked face came into focus. Beyond her was the familiar scene he and Scott had gone to. The next girl was stronger, she was pulling at the bindings and Stiles saw for a moment a stairwell then pale concrete. This was different … this was familiar.

He froze. Tried to focus. 

_Why so still, child? Is it too much to take in?_ Adramlech whispered and Stiles could hear the smile in his voice. _I thought one who would summon me would be stronger. I thought one who was to become the a god would be able to stomach more than this._

Stiles turned back, in his dream they were now in the forest. His safe place, he realized with a shock and a laugh. Because of course he found the creepiest part of town the safest. The demon seemed intrigued as well. He thought he saw a flash of red and blue. A shape amongst the shadows. 

He woke up then, drenched in sweat and reeking of smoke and dirt.

He draped an arm over his eyes, blocking the sun shining through his open window, “Awesome. A direct line to hell.”

He didn’t bother with breakfast, but was happy to see his father had eaten some when he’d gotten in. And he went through school on autopilot, occasionally hearing Adramlech’s voice whisper. But not to him, he figured out pretty quickly that the demon was talking to someone else. And either didn’t realize Stiles was still on the line or, better, didn’t know. He tried to keep his mind open, while keeping up with class. Some of it, he concluded, was what the demon had told the killer. Promising, prodding, challenging. Each time Stiles found himself wanting to agree. It was easy to want power, but at what cost?

“Cristinti, if I have to ask you again, I’m going to keep you on the bench for the rest of the season,” Coach screamed and shook Stiles out of his daydream.

“Sorry, Coach, thinking about the game this weekend,” at this Finstock’s eyebrows raised and he nodded his agreement, “Gonna kill those Franklin Frogs.”

“Kill ‘em and roast ‘em, Cristinti. After we learn about the economic impact of local microeconomics on small towns. Lahey, you’re up!”

Stiles breathed in relief and slumped in his desk. He tried to focus on the lesson, but Adramlech’s voice kept whispering. He caught Isaac’s eye but shook his head; he didn’t want to draw anymore attention. He tried to listen to Finstock, but still … Adramlech. For a moment he thought he saw a flicker of something; a notebook? A desk? 

He tried to focus then jolted when Scott slapped him on the back, “Man, good one about the Frogs.”

Stiles looked around and saw that half of the class had already left and forced a laugh. “You know me, always ready.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Peachy.” He watched Scott run off to Alison and waited for the inevitable. He didn’t have to wait long. 

“So you gonna tell me now or do I have to tell Derek who will get you to talk and then he’ll tell the rest of us?”

Stiles ignored Isaac and gathered his things, he was still trying to reach out. Did he have control? Was this some kind of residual tether?

Isaac nudged him and he was surprised to find himself flush against the wall, effectively slamming him back into reality. Isaac had barely touched him and looked just as surprised. “Okay, now you’re definitely talking.”

“Not here,” he groaned then slapped at Isaac’s hand away. “Seriously? We’re back to this? Back to locker pingpong?”

He struggled the rest of the day, but surprisingly never had the sensation of being alone. Isaac was beside him in every class, waiting for him at the doorway when they didn’t have the same teacher. It was like having his own personal guard dog. One that only growled at people twice, which in Stiles’s opinion was better than the non-demon days. 

He waited for Isaac at the end of the day, he knew where they were headed. They drove in silence and he wondered if Isaac had warned or told Scott about what was happening. The lack of one moppy-haired, love-sick puppy following on his bike told him that Isaac hadn’t. And part of him felt guilt at not saying something himself. But. 

But. 

Together Isaac and Stiles walked up the stairs to Derek’s loft and let themselves in with Isaac’s key. Derek was in the main room, lounging on the sofa with his feet on one arm while his head was against the other. He looked relaxed, he looked like a regular twenty year old guy. He looked calm and bothered by the interruption, a book now lay on his chest. He looked like in a second he could rip Stiles’s throat out. 

“Carpooling now has door to door delivery?” he drawled, and for all the world Stiles wondered what world he was in.

Instead he rolled his eyes, dropped his bag and flopped into the other chair, leaving Isaac to either move Derek’s feet or stay standing. He opted for snacks. 

“Har har. Your pup was on guard duty,” he smirked at the huff Isaac made from the kitchen then continued, “but I think the summoning spell … went … wrong.”

At this Derek at up straight, leaning towards Stiles. “Wrong, how exactly?”

Stiles wrinkled his nose and glanced at the text from Scott, he was missing lacrosse practice for this. “So, I can still hear it?”

Derek stilled and Isaac came back into the room, looking from one to the other. “What do you mean you can hear it?”

Stiles reminded himself that this was a safe place and put on a smile that he knew was fake and looked fake. “Yeah, so I’ve been hearing a demon in my head since about eleven o’clock last night. Pretty weird dreams, too. But I didn’t know what it was at the time, I just thought it was,” he ran his hand in circles, “My brain not shutting off. Which it does. Especially with werewolves and hunters and things like that. And by things like that, I think I mean demons?”

“Stiles…”

“And I didn’t really realize it until like third period? But then Scruff McLahey was sniffing around so I thought it was just my brain, like, wigging out?”

“But you knew it was the demon when…”

Stiles coughed into his hand, “When I started thinking about killing those girls and what they meant.” He lowered his voice. “And, maybe, when I saw their deaths like I was there.”

“Like you were there?” Isaac whispered, disbelief clearly in his voice. 

Stiles stamped his foot a few times and smiled sardonically, “I was looking down on them and knew what I was doing. Like I did it.” He glared at Isaac, “But we all know I didn’t actually _do_ it. ”

“No,” Derek agreed, “Now you’re just a second vessel for the demon — the demon that we all decided was a bad thing to be around — to communicate through.”

Stiles held up a finger and shook it, “Ah! I don’t think so. I don’t think it can control me or communicate with me. It didn’t feel like he was talking to me. And first I thought that but as the day went on, I don’t think so?” He began to pace and the other two followed him with their eyes. “It felt more like reminiscing? Like it was replaying old hits? And it didn’t feel like it was the one doing the killing, but like it was just watching. Like Murder TV. And it felt more like it was talking to someone else, I think if it were talking to me it would say something specific to me.”

“And so you’re, what? Watching beside it? Catching up on the greatest hits of Beacon Hills later serial killer?” Derek growled and stalked to the windows. Stiles watched him for a moment. The thing about Derek, and he didn’t realize this until far to late, was that he cared too much and took responsibility for everyone. Even people not in his family, not in his pack. And right now the weight of Stiles’s predicament was weighing just as heavily on Derek’s shoulders as his own. Shoulders that were right now rigid and straight, with arms crossed and a scowl on Derek’s face. 

He sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Yes? I don’t know if I can communi—”

“No.”

“I don’t know if I can communicate with it,” Stiles repeated, “But none of the books I looked at mentioned this as a possibility.”

“We could go back to Deaton?” Isaac suggested. “He’s been really helpful on this.”

Stiles didn’t look at Derek but felt the air change; chilling slightly at the thought of exposing himself and their unsuccessful plan. 

“And what do you think Deaton will tell us?” Derek asked, at last.

“I don’t know,” Isaac admitted, “But I don’t think the track record you two have going on right now is worth repeating.”

Stiles nodded and rolled his eyes when Derek growled and turned back to look out the window. “I don’t trust Deaton,” Stiles admitted. It was better to put the distrust on himself than his dynamic duo partner in disaster. 

Isaac’s brow furrowed and, again, Stiles was reminded of a lost puppy. “Why not? He’s been really helpful with Scott and me, and he’s helped us when we’ve gotten in over our heads.”

“He also knew about Gerard. When I …” Stiles trailed off and swallowed the rest of the thought, moved on. “And he knew more about Jackson than he first told us. He’s known about the demon for a month now and doesn’t have anything.”

Isaac nodded then shook his head, “I don’t know. He’s been a friend when we haven’t had many.”

“It’s a good idea,” Derek said through gritted teeth and if Stiles showed his surprise he hoped he covered it quickly enough. Derek continued, “Isaac, why don’t you head there now. We’ll follow.”

Isaac grinned and nodded, then loped out of the loft without a second glance. Or a second thought, Stiles thought, and wondered what that absolute certainty must feel like. 

“Gonna explain, Big Guy?” Stiles asked. He shut his eyes and grappled against the wall when an image that came to him mind: candlelight and smoke, stairs that were just this side of familiar, and a shadow against the walls. He opened his eyes and found Derek’s gripping his arms, concern and fear looked back at him. 

“Because I’m afraid of something like that happening,” Derek replied and pulled back once Stiles was steady again, “And not being able to stop the demon or pull you back.”

_Fool_ , the voice whispered, _too eager to find him_. 

Stiles swallowed and nodded. “On a different note, “ he did not squeak, his voice cracked, “I definitely think he’s is looking for me.”


	8. Chapter 8

_  
He felt himself changed._

_When he looked in the mirror he was no longer the scrawny invisible loser at Beacon Hills High, he was Himself. He was a God. He was ready for the power. He looked at the yearbook where he’d carved out the names of those that made him. He ran his fingers over the red crossed slashes covering their faces._

_He’d read once that the Greek gods had demanded the sacrifices of the willing, of the pure. These were his pure. These were his willing. When the blade drew down to them there was an acceptance in their eyes. He had seen it. He had felt it._

_And it felt good. The promise had felt good._

_He roamed the empty train depot and sneered at the vestiges of his past. A ratty sweater, a schoolbag, a basketball jersey he’d barely touched as third string. He had come here a child. He began this journey impossibly blind to everything around him. He remembered the day he found the depot — he’d been running from bullies and had slipped through the open gates. He had been scrawny at that age and the other boys had been too big to fit, so he’d run through the scraps of metal and junk. He had found a place to hide. A place to be alone._

_Years of being alone, of being nothing. Then he had heard the whisper of his future._

_He snapped his fingers and looked in amazement when the candles around the lot lit; the swish of flame and wick coming together, the smell of wax and smoke. He closed his eyes, then opened them to reveal his power at work. Instead of cracked walls and broken stairs, a sheen of red covered the walls and the imperfections. The stairs were sturdy and neat, not a crack heard when he tested them. The wood shined beneath his feet. He looked down to where the blood stains had been, to where the remnants of feathers and herbs still covered; with a scant a thought the space was covered with a rug. He looked down from the top of the stairwell and looked at his place._

_This was his. This was his place._

_He tried to call Adramlech then slammed his fist against the wall when the demon did not come. He fixed the hole in the wall as he passed it. He tried again and heard nothing._

_Rage engulfed his vision, red and black and nothingness. He was being toyed with. He was being abandoned, and for what?_

_Because he went after the prom queen bitch ahead of some second rate demon’s plan? Because he was taunting and hunting Stiles?_

_A wave of fury built within him and he sent a flurry of anger into the sky, then watched as the lightening rose to the clouds. He laughed. He laughed until tears came to his eyes and he had to grip the roof of his car for balance._

_He was fine._

_Everything was fine._

_He was powerful._

_The demon was a liar._

_And wasn’t that what they did? They lied, they whispered what you needed to hear to get what they wanted. And he had been a fool to listen._

_He questioned whether he needed to finish the ritual. Did it have to be the bitch? Did it have to stop with the would-be detective? He had felt a power unlike anything else when he looked down into the eyes of his pure ones. Had He felt the energy of life and death surround them, then he felt nothing. He took their lives and left their deaths. And he missed it._

_And now it was time to finish Stiles. It was time to get rid of the Self, and get rid of the pest. He was too close. He was too smart._

_How did he know?* How did he not think before?_

_He could kill them both, he thought. He could kill them together. He felt the glee swirl around him, felt the wind picking up at his feet as the idea grew. He would take her, she had no clue who he was or what he was._

_Lydia Martin had no clue about anything. And then, he grinned and revved his engine, he could lure his Self. His past. His finale, for now. One would die, the other he could play with as his power grew._

_Giddiness bubble up inside of him, he felt release as the pieces began to fit together. It would be so much sweeter to watch Lydia as Stiles died protecting her._

~~*~~

The drive to the clinic was filled with the latest pop song, then country, then the local broadcast news. Anything to drown the silence of Derek and the seductive whispers of Adramlech. Stiles could see how someone could be seduced, how he’d agreed to that first killing. Not that he wanted to kill, he tapped a beat against the passenger door while Derek stared straight ahead. This was the first time he’d been a passenger in this car since …. well, since his mother’s last drive. He watched Beacon Hills pass in a blur and tried to focus on anything but the anger radiating off Derek.

The plan had been a disaster.   
The demon now possibly had a line into Stiles’s brain.  
The images of death were basically on repeat in his mind.

When he graduated, he was going to ask for therapy. Therapy and a lifetime away from this town.

They pulled into the parking lot of the veterinary clinic and Stiles hesitated in opening the door. The last time he’d been here was after he had been at the emporium. And after the whole ‘spark’ discussion. He looked down at his hands, flipped them over and back. Had it really only been a week since he had held the essence of an alpha? Since a witch had looked at him like a prize to be added to her emporium?

“You don’t have to come in,” Derek said at last. Stiles shook his head and stepped out of the jeep. 

“I was thinking about the last time we were here.”

Derek nodded and Stiles wondered what the other man was thinking. At another time Stiles would have researched and delved into the separation of an alpha from its essence. It had triggered something in him, something protective of the alpha (and other werewolves) that he knew. And the fact that Deaton hadn’t been surprised was something that stuck with him. He had a suspicion that when they went into the clinic, Deaton wouldn’t be surprised by this turn of events either. He huffed a sigh and started the march towards the backdoor, which he figured saw more action than the front. 

Inside Issac was playing with a puppy on the operating table while Scott stood beside him, smiling until the door opened. Then Scott rounded on Stiles before he’d even stepped inside. 

“What the hell Stiles?” he demanded, barely looking at Derek who stepped in behind him. “You think you have to do this alone? Summoning a demon?”

Stiles glared at Issac who was hyper focused on the puppy and putting the pup back into its kennel. “Look, man, I kno—”

“You don’t know. You _always_ do this. You always do something reckless and stupid and one of us has to save you.”

“Wow,” Stiles stopped and felt Derek step beside him. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“This isn’t funny,” Scott continued. “You’re hearing voices? You’re seeing the killer? What next?”

“Scott,” Derek warned.

“What? You’re going to side with him? You were the one to tell us to step back! You were the one who said that were would be no calling of the demon, that none of us would be bait.”

“I believe,” Deaton side, stepping from out of his office, “that we have other things to focus on than blaming one party over another.”

Stiles opened his mouth then shut it when Scott continued, “It isn’t blame when someone actually does it. We are supposed to be a team. We are supposed to be finding out the person who is killing students from our school together.”

“And how has Mr. Stilinski not done that?” Deaton asked. And the room seemed to still. Scott’s anger was briefly turned to Deaton then fizzled. “Are you angry that he did something or that he did something without you, Scott?”

“Or are you mad that I was right, again, that this was something beyond what the cops could handle?” Stiles asked. “Are you mad that I was right and that we don’t get to ignore the bad things that happen in this town?”

Scott’s eyes flared yellow then back to their normal brown, and he stormed out of the clinic with Issac on his tail. For a moment the three that remained looked at where the other two had gone. 

“I think at another time that would have been you following him, Stiles,” Deaton said quietly from beside him. “Even after the werewolf bite, you would have gone after your friend.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But he doesn’t have demon radio chatter in his head.”

“No. And he doesn’t fully grasp the importance of his role.”

“And you think Stiles does?” Derek asked. He leaned against one of the walls, back to the wall so he faced both Deaton and the backdoor; and for all the world looked relaxed and ready to listen. Stiles knew better. Stiles knew a vantage position when he saw it. 

“I think that Mr. Stilinski has changed over the last few years. And I think,” he said turning to Stiles, “that he took more from the emporium than a feather and some herbs.”

“Oh, no. I only bought wha—”

“You are changed, Stiles. The spark inside of you changed. Was it seeing the world that had been blind to you?” The red line of the alpha’s essence filled Stiles’s mind. “Or was it having someone outside of myself acknowledge that you are greater than you think?”

“You’ve never—”

“Ah, a conversation for another time I think.” Behind them the door opened and Scott and Issac came back in, Scott’s eyes avoided Stiles and for a moment Stiles wanted to reach out and fix it. “So tell me about the spell and what you see.”

It was Derek who told them, as much as he could. Stiles added the parts with him and the demon. Deaton took notes, Issac listened and shook his head, Scott crossed his arms and looked angry and ready to bolt. 

“I see.” 

“You see, what?” Stiles asked. It all sounded ridiculous and sometimes he felt like he needed to pinch himself or that he would wake up and it would all be a dream. All of it. Werewolves, hunters, Jackson, Lydia, Deaton. What happened to sleepy, little beacon Hills? 

“You should have come to me first,” Deaton answered. “Spells are tricky at the best of times. They are dangerous and often times can be misinterpreted. I do not think you have an open line with the demon, Stiles. I think you have a oneway connection.”

“Great,” he mumbled.

“It could be. I have seen shamans and psychics spend years trying to summon an entity from another plane, many never succeed. You did so your first time. It is impressive, although not how you intended the incantation to go.”

Sweat prickled at the back of his neck and Stiles desperately wanted to wipe a hand there, “Well, you know, beginner’s luck.”

Deaton hummed and shook his head. “Doubtful. But I do believe this connection can work in your favor.”

“How’s that?” Scott asked, finally uncrossing his arms and stepping closer.

“Stiles will need to enter the circle again, this time with the focus on the demon and that which is beyond the demon.”

“He’s not summoning the demon again,” Derek stated. 

Deaton nodded, “It isn’t an option I’m afraid. The connection is there, it doesn’t matter if Stiles initiates the conversation or not. Besides, by Stiles entering the circle he can summon the demon as before and learn more than the demon may want him to.”

“Wait. I thought you said it was one way,” Isaac said.

“It is,” Deaton agreed. “But there are many things we can learn from a one way conversation. And perhaps Stiles can be trained to seek out the demon without initiating conversation. Right now it is a one way communication, within the circle there is more opportunity to create a dialogue with the otherworld.”

“How?” Derek and Stiles asked, Stiles flicked a glance at Derek and then to Deaton. 

“I can help you, Stiles, focus your energy. I do believe that if you were trained —”

“I don’t want to be trained,” Stiles cut in. “I just want to stop people from dying.”

Deaton nodded once, then said, “I can help you do that as well.”

“Just tell us how to stop the demon from taking over Stiles,” Derek demanded.

Deaton tsk’d. “I don’t think that is what the demon has planned, after all the Self still needs to be killed. I think Stiles opened a door and your demon,” he said turning to Stiles, “didn’t realize that it was not dealing with an average man.”

“Oh, I’m average,” Stile said, pointing a thumb to his chest, “I’m beyond average. I’m the most average guy in this room.”

“That’s the truth,” Issac muttered, then grinned when he pointedly looked at Stiles then to Derek and Scott and Deaton. Point to Issac, Stiles thought with roll of his eyes.

“Yes. Well,” Deaton cleared his throat and began to straighten the books on one of this shelves until he pulled out and began to go through it. Stiles tried to peak at it form where he stood, not wanting to indulge in walking over. “I told you once, Stiles, that sometimes magic needed a spark. And I watched you do something incredible. I have watched you do several incredible things over the last few years. Beyond what I believe an ‘average’ person can do.”

A flush began to creep up his throat and cheeks, “I do what I have to do to help my friends.”

Deaton nodded and for a moment Stiles thought he saw sadness creep into the otherwise placid face. “And what needs to be done, even at your own expense.” He nodded to himself then ripped a few pages from the book in his hand and handed them over. “You must focus on the demon. Summon him again with purpose, lie if you must. The demon must reveal something of your killer, if this is the route you wish to go. 

“And, unfortunately, it is the route you have already chosen. You can’t close the door when the other person is still conversing. At least not in the mystical worlds. But you can use the time with the demon to observe and find out more than he intends you to. Give into the conversation, accept that the demon will taunt you. I do not know if the demon is communicating with you or if you are merely sensing the demon’s communications with the killer.”

“But how can we know what the demon shows Stiles is the truth?” Scott asked. It was something Stiles had been wondering as well. Weren’t demons liars? He assumed if anyone - anything - was going to lie, it would be demons.

“Ah, well, that is where Stiles’s speciality comes in.”

“His spark?” Issac asked with an almost roll of his eyes. 

“No.” Deaton shook his head. “His ability to make anyone he talks to lose their focus and temper.”

“Hey!” Stiles barked. “I do—”

“Shut up,” Derek growled. “And then what?” 

“Then? Then you find the boy who originally summoned the demon and stop him. And you destroy the way in which the demon comes into our world.”

“The door,” Stiles concluded, leaning against the table Derek had just stood from. 

“Every portal needs someone to open it, to grant access. I imagine, given the theatrical aspects of your killer, that it will be a mirror or bowl of dark ink. Something he saw in a movie or tv show that seemed like the only way to summon a demon.”

Derek looked at Stiles with a raised eyebrow, clearly remembering the mirror in Stiles’s room that they had used. “Hey, I never said I was thinking outside the box here.”

“That is exactly what you said,” Derek countered, then turned too Deaton. “Is there anyway to protect Stiles when he is talking to the demon?”

”And does the killer talk to him the way I do?” Stiles added.

“Yes,” Deaton answered to Derek, “and probably not,” he said to Stiles. “Stiles will need something to keep him grounded in his body. He needs something to weigh him down and remind him that the demon’s reality is not safe. And to answer your question, Mr. Stilinksi. Probably not. At first, perhaps, but now he is powerful enough that he can call upon the demon without ornaments and trickery. Of course that means the demon can go to him without those tools as well, so be careful you do not show your hand too soon.

“It is a dangerous thing to dance with a devil. Some marks are left which cannot be seen. Keep your focus, Stiles. And don’t forget your limits. You might run with wolves,” Deaton looked at Stiles, “but you are not one. And humans break very easily, especially when in the grasp of a supernatural entity.”

“He’ll be fine,” Derek answered. 

Deaton handed the pages to Stiles then turned to Derek. “Scott, why don’t boys go outside for a moment. I need to speak with Derek.”

“Anything you can say to Derek—”

“It is about something else altogether.” And the matter was settled. Derek was walking towards Deaton; Stiles was already headed out the door. Ready to read the pages and wait for his chauffeur. Outside Scott stopped halfway between the clinic and the jeep when he saw what side Stiles was walking towards.

“Are you kidding me right now? You let him drive?!” Stiles had the decency to flinch then straightened.

“I started to hear Adramlech. Derek took the wheel. It’s nothing.” He looked away, looked down, looked at the jeep then at the clinic; because it was something and it was something he wasn’t ready to go into right now. 

Inside Derek crossed his arms and tuned his hearing to the conversation outside. He could hear the anger in Scott and the indignation in Stiles, and he could hear the questions between the two that weren’t being said. 

“Aren’t you going to ask why I wanted to speak with you?” Deaton asked. He turned away from Derek and began to organize the area Issac had been playing with the puppy, then straightening the books he’d been at earlier.

“I can wait.”

Deaton nodded, “That you can, Derek. You always were the silent and patient one of your family, never the boisterous Laura or demanding Talia. Even Cora was impatient in her own way” He turned back and placed both hands on the table between them. “I asked you to stay because of what young Stiles experienced at the emporium. I must say it is hard to find the two of you separated nowadays.”

Derek raised an eyebrow, “There’s a killer on the loose. One that Stiles picked out before anybody realized the trend.”

“Yes,” Deaton agreed. “A trend it seems for young Mr. Stilinski. What do you know of an alpha’s essence?”

Derek shrugged and fought to not tighten his hands into fists, “I’m guessing it’s what makes an alpha an alpha.”

“Indeed. It is the strength, the power, and the very embodiment of the werewolf. The essence of an alpha is an incredibly powerful thing to contain. What I failed to tell Stiles is that I have never seen one in tact. I have heard rumors of the spell that can do this, but the wolf does not live.”

Derek swallowed and an itch in hands began to grow. “And this has to do with this case, how?”

“Oh. It doesn’t. It has to do with a young man who was not only able to hold the power of an alpha in his hand, but to make it let up. According to Gwendlyn,” at Derek’s look Deaton sighed, “the woman who owns the establishment, no one has made that vial so much as flicker in her thirty years as proprietor.”

“Except Stiles.”

“Yes. It appears your average human might not be so average after all.”

“He isn’t mine, and why didn’t you tell him this? Why tell me?” Derek turned towards the back door then stopped when Deaton spoke.

“Because, Derek, there are very many creatures and beings and humans who would be very interested in him. Including a demon. Including others. It might do him well to have someone train him.”

Derek put the pieces together just before Deaton finished the last sentence and flashed his eyes, felt the rage and power of the wolf within him claw its way upwards. “The demon get be near him.”

He slammed the door, pleased when the walls surrounding it shook and cracked, and stalked towards the jeep. He kept his eye on Stiles but grabbed Issac’s arm as he passed.

“Scout out Stiles’s neighborhood and the neighborhoods of the dead girls.” 

“What?”

“Excuse me? Who made you the boss?”

“What the hell, Derek?!”

Derek rounded the side of the jeep and turned to Scott. “You want to be helpful? Get your girlfriend and Lydia and meet us back to the loft.”

He slammed the door and revved the engine, and tightened his grip on the wheel. Deaton’s words were playing over and over in his head, just as he knew the witch doctor had wanted. He couldn’t protect Stiles in some netherworld, he couldn’t stop the demon from warping his mind but he could protect him here and now. 

Stiles pat Scott on the shoulder and squeezed then nodded to Issac. Then he stared at Derek as he walked to the car, even as he opened the door he didn’t break eye contact.

“So. Are you going to tell me what Deaton said that made you go uber alpha on us?”

“No.”

Stiles nodded twice. “Okay. So tell me or I call the cops and tell them Derek Hale, resident former murder suspect and probable criminal, has stolen my jeep.” He waved his phone and smiled.

Derek sighed, he waited until Scott and Issac had left. Scott looking over his shoulder every few feet until he turned down Main Street. Isaac simply shrugged and walked in the other direction, all the world looking like a loner kid on a nightly stroll (which, to Stiles, didn’t seem not creepy or weird at all). 

“Apparently the alpha essence thing is a bigger deal than we thought,” he said at last. 

Stiles frowned, “That? That was weeks ago.”

“A week ago.”

He rolled his eyes, “That was a week ago. We’re past it. We’re on to bigger and better mysteries, like how to contact a demon without getting caught. Or worse.” He made a slitting motion across his throat. 

Derek pulled over, down one of the alleys near Stiles’ house. Stiles looked and saw the backside of Mr. Jurson’s house.

“He said that the witch had never seen the vial react like it did for you in over thirty years. He said that you aren’t as average as we want to believe.”

“Ouch,” Stiles remarked, rubbing his chest. “As average as we want to believe? And, whatever. That’s something for another day. We can’t focus on something that is a maybe when we have a killer out there. I’m not going to let Lydia be killed, and I’m not all that interested in my death either.”

Derek growled and drove the length of the alley, then past Stiles’s house. Isaac came bounding around the corner and snuck into the back seat. He drove the way back to the loft in silence, ignoring Issac’s obvious attempts at information. But he time they got to the loft Lydia’s Beetle was parked in the spot beside Derek’s and Scott’s bike was leaning on the wall in front of it. 

Stiles wanted to focus on the here, and what was going on but it was too much to process. 

What did it mean? Deaton was a fount of information, this was the most the mysterious vet had spoken to Stiles in the three and a half years he’d known him. What scars could the demon do? He thought the salt protected him from evil, was that not so in the other realm they’d been in? Where was that place? Had he been in hell? Stiles didn’t think so, he thought Hell would be … a hell of a lot hotter. And brighter. Or darker. Although it had been plenty dark when he’d spoken to Adramlech.

And what about the emporium? He didn’t want to admit it but the way Derek had reacted and the information itself was enough to make Stiles want to pack up and visit Aunt Debbie in Spokane. What did that mean? What did it mean that the vial had reacted so colorfully for him? What did it mean that he’d felt the pulse as if he’d been holding the string … the essence … itself? 

In the loft Stiles began to set up the circle like he’d done in his own room, finding the ritual and action oddly soothing. He walked the circle three times, dropping salt as he moved, then turned and repeated the motion in the opposite direction. He thought of the demon and the victims that had been claimed in its name, he thought about his father and the police officers spinning wheels trying to find something they couldn’t even fathom, he thought about Scott and Allison and Lydia and Issac. He thought about Derek, and how they were bringing more evil into his life and his home. 

He stopped and let out a breath, finally thinking about the toll that this was starting to take on him. Then he pushed that thought away, buried it for another not-so-summony day, and looked to the others. 

“You’ll need an anchor,” Derek stated. 

“Yeah, something to keep me grounded.” He stepped into the circle and thought he saw the salt pulse. Didn’t he?

“I’ll do it,” Scott declared, then stopped when Allison pulled him back. 

“I don’t think you can, babe,” she whispered. 

“Yeah, I don’t think you can have like … a chain of anchors? Allison is your anchor,” Stiles said.

“And you’re mine,” she finished, squeezing Scott’s hand. “You can’t be everything to everyone, Scott.” She kissed his cheek and smiled when he pulled her close. 

Derek rolls his eyes and sat across from Stiles, and Stiles stared for a second because he didn’t even remember him crossing the barrier. Had the salt pulsed? Did salt pulse?

~~*~~

He sat cross legged in the middle of the circle and watched while Derek lit the candles around the circle. Each candle was encircled with its own ring of salt creating a continuous guard against evil, and creating a more powerful protection. He remembered the lights from before being the only brightness in the surrounding pitch black. When he was done and sitting across from Stiles, Stiles lit the center candle and began reciting the words. They came freer this time, rather than repeating the words in his mind he heard them echo. He didn’t think about them; didn’t have to think about the ritual at all, really. When he opened his eyes he was back in the darkness.

“So soon, little human?” Adramlech laughed. Stiles heard the click of the demons heels on the ground and focused on that for a moment, they were definitely somewhere concrete. It was somewhere that shoes would mark an audible click with each step.

“I’m just a social type of guy,” he answered, this time there was no shake in his voice. He had a purpose, one that he tried not to think about …. but couldn’t stop thinking about. He shook his head and cursed his brain. Do, don’t think. Don’t let the demon sneak in and figure out the plan. 

The demon watched, tilting its head slightly too far for comfort. Its blue eyes twinkled and Stiles felt the same pull as from before, it smiled serenely. 

“A social type of guy?” it questioned, Stiles swore he could feel the breath of the demon on his neck and tried not to shiver. He was safe, he was protected. He needed to focus. It hummed and continued its prowl around Stiles, watching him with crystal clear eyes and a curious look. “You are different, Self. Different than I thought you would be.”

“Well,” Stiles laughed, forcing the sound around the terror that was rising. This wasn’t where the conversation was supposed to go. “You’re not the first to point that out.”

The demon hummed and smiled. “I didn’t see it the first time we met, although perhaps I should have. Why are you different, Stiles?”

Stiles swallowed and hated the fear that stretched over him. The demon had the same look the witch had: calculating, intrigued, lustful. He straightened and focused on the point of this summoning. 

“I have a message for you to deliver,” Stiles said, he watched the twinkle in the demon’s eye turn callous for a flash of a moment. 

“Oh?” the demon stepped fully into the candlelight and Stiles was thrown by his visage. He took the demon in and could almost feel the velveteen cloth under his fingers, the warm flesh beneath. Its beauty and appeal couldn’t be ignored, and it was almost too hard for Stiles to catalogue it all for later. “And what message is that?”

Behind the demon a flicker of shadow, Stiles looked and saw the lightness of the concrete. He’d been right! Another shape rose in the shadow, stairs? He tried to see past the demon.

“Tell your boss,” the demon hissed at that and for another second the light around him flared. It was stairs! Like when Derek …. Seriously? Stiles continued, “Tell your boss we’ve figured out what he wants and who he is going after. Lydia isn’t going to be killed. And you,” Stiles pointed, hoping for another flash of angry light, “aren’t going to be free anytime soon.”

It worked. The light around the demon flashed bright and for a second the room around him was bright. Stiles took it in, but kept his eyes on the demon. There was a shape, a man, behind him at an altar. Light seemed to glimmer in the man’s hands before darkness descended. The glimmer had been blue, turquoise blue against the darkness, and green like the sea. The man’s shadow hadn’t been lit by the demon’s anger, but by the glimmer. Stiles filed that away for later and focused on Adramlech. 

“My boss?” the Demon hissed again and to a step forward. Stiles heard the sizzle when the demon’s toes brushed the salt and he let a shaking breath of relief out. “My boss? Child! Insolent wretch, it is I who am the boss. It is I who choose the sacrifices made in my name. And your friend? She will be the final one before I have my vessel claim you. Claim the Self and release me into this soon-to-be God forsaken world.”

He laughed, the demon threw his head back and laughed. The sound was both infectious and gruesome. It crawled over Stiles skin, leaving a shiver that made him want to throw up. It made him want to step closer. The look in the demon’s eye changed then, it became dangerous and twisted. Its smile malicious and conniving. 

“Do you think a simple mortal can defeat me? Do you think I did not think about my vessel before I chose him?” The demon waved his hand the salt circle broke, almost immediately the four candles surrounding Stiles extinguished and the shadows slid forward - save the candle in the center. Stiles felt something on his arm, warm and steady.

Derek. 

He leaned into that heaviness and warmth, and looked up at the demon.

“I think you underestimated what this town does to evil,” he replied, then used his will to blow the candle out.

When he opened his eyes he was staring into Derek’s, quite frankly, terrified eyes and had Derek’s hands clutching his forearms. He’d ran, tail between his legs, back to the anchor that had gripped him and kept him from falling into the demon’s grasp. 

“Easy, tiger,” he laughed and hated that his voice cracked. He could feel sweat at his temples and back, and when he moved to stand he was wobbly. He needed to sit down. 

“The salt moved,” Lydia said, and there was fear in her voice. “The salt can’t move, it’s in our plane. It’s supposed to be a barrier.”

“And yet,” Stiles gestured. It hadn’t broken on this side, he noted, not like in the darkness. The circle now looked more like a distorted emoji smile with two of the candles serving as eyes. The other two had been knocked over, either by the movement or by Derek gripping him. He stepped out of the circle as Derek extinguished the final candle and collapsed onto the nearest chair. Stiles watched the lines of smoke rise and twine together. In the darkness he had used his mind to blow it out, and what did that mean? It hadn’t touched the candles here. In his mind, he’d been able to focus on the other images. What did the glimmer mean? 

“And yet,” Derek agreed. “So what did you see?”

“What did it say?” Allison wanted to know, she’d taken a few steps closer at some point and was standing beside one of the extinguished candles, leaning down to start picking them up candles. 

“I know where they are,” Stiles answered then turned to Derek with a slow smile, “And you are never going to guess where they are.”

“Stiles,” Derek growled.

“The depot.”

Isaac pulled back, “The train depot?” He looked to Derek, “Like where we used to live?”

“If you can call that living,” Lydia remarked, ignoring the flash of Isaac’s eyes. 

“Why there?” Scott asked.

“I’d guess same reason I did. No one goes there, it’s pretty isolated. The hanger I was in was below ground so sounds didn’t travel as far and it’s pretty easy to protect.”

Stiles nodded, “Yeah. And I think they are in yours, or one really similar,” he closed his eyes and tried to bring back what he’d seen. It was a trick his father had taught him, not knowing in the distant future his son would be using the trick to ferret out demons and killers. He waved one hand to the right, “There were stairs going up to the right, the railing was busted on the bottom half. And I think there was glass at the top, some of the windows broken.

“There was a rug on the floor or something colorful, I can’t remember the design but it was definitely multicolored. Reds and blues, maybe some yellow and green. They stood out against the light concrete. There were feathers, like, everywhere. On the ground, sticking out of cars and laying on top of metal barrels.” He opened his eyes. “There were two broken down cars and one junker that looked like it still worked. Or could work.”

Allison looked up from where she’d been drawing the room out, “This is great, Stiles. What else?”

He looked over her shoulder, “Yeah. There were gasoline barrels over here and car parts on the floor.”

“No train?” Derek asked.

Stiles frowned, “No. No train. Maybe it’s not the depot?”

Derek shook his head, “It is. I know which one it is, it’s at the older part of the grounds but the hanger where the engineers worked.”

“We should go,” Scott decided. “Before it figures out that we know.”

“How is it going to know?” Stiles asked, “It was too busy talking to me to realize.”

“Saying what?” Derek asked, reaching for the broom and starting to get rid of the salt. Issac sniffed the air then sneezed as salt began to fly, he quickly took the broom from Derek and got rid of the mess, muttering something about messy houses and just moving the dirt around instead of cleaning. 

“Nothing, just taunting me.”

“Stiles,” Derek said quietly, they both ignored the sound Scott made in response. 

Stiles flicked a look at Lydia then sighed, “He confirmed that Lydia was the next sacrifice,” she gasped and Alison reached around to grab her hand, “And then me. He also says that he is still in control.”

“But?” Alison asked.

“But it didn’t feel that way. It felt like when he talked about himself is when I got more flashes of where they were. Like it was making him angry and making him lose control.”

“Well, if anyone can make someone angry by just talking, Stiliniski, it’s you,” Isaac laughed, then coughed at the look Derek shot him. 

“We should go to the depot,” Scott said, standing up. Isaac straightened when Alison stood up.

“And what? Fight a demon? Before this thing started none of us knew demons existed. What are we going to do against a half-corporeal demon and a teenage kid with unknown powers? He already attacked Lydia - in broad daylight.”

“So what we do?” Scott asked.

“We should bring in my father, see what he knows.” Alison stated.

Before Stiles could object Derek stood, full height and shoulders back. “No. No one else. And no hunters. I’ll handle this.”

“Good,” Lydia said, standing and grabbing her bag. “I’m out. I’m not interested in becoming another hostage or another plaything for evil. I am not going to be caught up in some sicko’s fantasy for power. Again.”

“Lydia, wait,” Alison called out as the redhead stormed from the room.

“It’s probably for the best,” Derek said quietly. 

“For the best?” Scott yelled, he stormed to where Allison and Lydia had just left and turned back. “She’s bait whether she wants it or not! The killer is after her.”

“And we know where he lives. We know what to look for.”

“So we should go to the depot,” Isaac repeated. “We should stop this. Three werewolves have to be able to stop one power-hungry high school senior.”

“Three werewolves and me,” Stiles interjected.

“Not happening,” Derek snapped, then looked to the others. “And nothing is happening tonight. You two, go home and rest. We need to plan before we attack.” Derek took a breath. “Scott, go to Deaton and see what he suggests.”

“What about you?” Scott asked Stiles, ignoring Derek’s command. Stiles shrugged and nudged his bag with his foot.

“I’m going home and I am going to try and remember more.”

“You could stay at mine,” Scott whispered. 

“Scottie, it’s fine. I need to go home. Go to Deaton. Go to Allison. Get some rest. Do wolfie things,” Stiles said, pushing Scott gently on the shoulder. When they were alone, Stiles turned to Derek. “So?”

“So?” Derek mirrored the gesture back at him, wide eyes and spread arms. 

“We’re really not going to the depot?” Stiles asked incredulously.

“We’re really not going to the depot.” Derek agreed. The word ‘tonight’ sat silently between them. 

Stiles huffed, looked at the clock and was surprised to find it after midnight. Maybe running to the depot wasn’t the smartest move when the sun was due to come up in a matter of hours. He grabbed his things and left without another word. A thousand and five things were rolling around his brain, not least of all were the whispered echoes of the demon. 

At home he heated dinner from earlier in the week, sat at the dinner table and started to look at his homework. Chemistry, elements, equations. They were so useless right now; a serial killer had been made in the time it took Harris to create three pop quizzes. The thought made Stiles pause. So quick. How fast did demons usually turn their prey? How fast would this whole ordeal be finished?

_It’s so easy to control_ , a voice whispered, _you just plant the seed and allow greed and desire water it._

Stiles looked behind him, certain someone had been there. Ice rolled down his spine, his heart thundered in his ears. The kitchen was empty, aside from shadows from the passing cars. He looked into the den and saw it dark. He rolled his shoulders and flexed his hands, then shut his homework and made his way upstairs. 

Tired, he told himself. He was just tired and worn out. He fell onto his bed, kicked off his jeans and lay atop of the covers. It was too hot anyway. He felt himself being pulled into sleep, darkness curtaining his eyes and silence muting the world around him. 

_I can help. I can give you what you want._

The dream was almost immediate, and he knew it was a dream even as he fought to wake from it or, at the very least, control it. He was in a house similar to his own but different. Different pictures lined on the walls, rooms laid out in different locations. 

_All you have to do_ , the voice whispered. It was so low Stiles struggled to hear it, instead holding his breath until the voice spoke again. It was almost lyrical, it was absolutely seductive. Like waiting for the beat of a song you know, he knew what needed to happen. _All you have to do is find me. Find them. Bring me to you._

Stiles felt the heat of the darkness wrap itself around him. He could only see as far as he could reach, pictures fading into shadow. He struggled, knowing that he needed to see everything but being drawn down the hallway towards the voice. Was it getting louder? 

It surrounded him. It pulled him. It drew him. It was the only thing he could think about. The pictures were there but he couldn’t turn to look. 

_Remember when we spoke? Remember the power you felt that first time?_

He did, didn’t he? Stiles released a shaky breath as he turned into a room, a bathroom? He looked in the mirror and saw his own reflection, surrounding him were deep purple and green flames. Flames that licked up around him. Blue and red mist rose from below as he stared at himself and he transformed. 

_Remember sweet Annie? Remember our first?_

The image before him slowly changed, at first he didn’t see the differences. But then his neck lengthened; his nose widened; his smile grew longer while his eyes changed from honey brown to hazy green. His hair lengthened and he raised a hand to his face, felt the skin beneath his fingers. He was a familiar stranger. 

_We can have this_ , the voice whispered in his ear The image changed again, sharpening the features of his new face. He knew the face, but he didn’t. 

The image began to blur, the voice began to drown itself and echo. He couldn’t make out the words anymore, couldn’t feel them vibrate against him. He felt warmth, solid warmth on his leg and arm. It tightened and he stepped back. Then he burst awake, shot up in his bed, his breath coming in heaves and wheezes.

Derek was in front of him, crouched down with a hand on his thigh and arm.

“Stiles,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Stiles breathed then pulled back. “Yeah. I’m fine. Derek?”

“You were screaming,” Derek answered. He placed a hand to Stiles’s forehead and pushed him down, “And you’re burning up.”

Stiles watched Derek, one Derek? Two? Two blur into one. His whole body felt worn and damp. He was exhausted. 

“ _You’re_ burning up,” Stiles slurred and watched Derek leave his room. Then saw a shadow come back and press a cold compress against his neck and forehead. 

“Drink this,” Derek commanded shoving a glass of water into his hand. “What the hell happened?”

“I think Adramlech wanted to finish our talk,” Stiles slurred, struggling to sit up. He ignored that he was sitting in a soaking shirt and boxers, and ignored the breeze that came through his open window or the shiver that followed. 

“Stiles, what happened?” Derek repeated, this time softer. Stiles felt the shift of exhaustion to another type of looseness. 

Stiles shook his head and stood, proud when he only swayed the one time. He walked to the window and saw that the sun was out, people were jogging down the road and enjoying the late Autumn sunshine. His father’s car wasn’t in the driveway and Stiles wondered if he’d stayed the night at the precinct. 

“I don’t know. The demon, I guess. It didn’t feel like the demon was talking to me. I think he was showing me — how he took the killer. I was in a house. Derek, there was something familiar about it. I think he’s someone I know.”

Another wave of intrusion hit him. It was one thing to know that the killer was someone in Beacon Hills, it was one thing to know that the killer was somehow related to his school. It was another thing to have a familiarity with him. It was another thing to know the killer had been in his house, and to have been in the killer’s house — albeit only in his dream. It was another thing entirely to know someone he knew was killing people in his town, and killing people in his school.

Again.

He got flashes of Matt; of being paralyzed in the sheriff’s station, of being attacked in the library and pool. He was sick of this town and in annoyance dropped down on the edge of the bed. 

Derek silently sat beside him. They stayed like that until Derek took a deep breath in, “You know, life was a lot better before Scott got bit and Beacon Hills High became the center of everything.”

Stiles laughed at that and nodded, “No, it was great. Your psycho uncle was killing people, including your sister and gunning for you. It was a great time.”

“At least it was in the family,” Derek countered with a small smile. Stiles’s felt his shoulder relax and dropped his head back to look at the ceiling. 

“You have a messed up family, dude.” He sighed and sat up, “We need to tell my dad. We need to figure out who it is. I can’t just go to him with ‘someone’ from school.”

“You aren’t going under with the demon again, Stiles,” and something in Derek’s voice stopped the argument before it started. 

“No. It’s draining,” he admitted. “How can whoever this is not just feel drunk and drained all the time?”

“Probably the spell, he must get power. At least that’s what Deaton implied.”

Stiles nodded then looked over without turning his head, “I could go back to the emporium.”

“Or,” Derek started then stopped himself. 

“Or?” Stiles prompted.

Derek stood and walked to the window, and Stiles was struck again at how unfair the other man’s life had been. The trip down memory lane had caused enough heartache for Derek, he wondered what was going through his mind. 

“When I was younger and learning to control my anger, my mom taught me a few tricks,” Derek said quietly.

“Finding your anchor,” Stiles supplied, “You told us that. Or, you told Scott that.”

“That’s just one way. Sometimes anchors change, and not for the better.” Kate hung between them like a ghost. “Mom used to have us meditate.”

“Meditate?” Of all things Derek could have said, this was not even in the top twenty and Stiles kind of loved that this was where their conversation had gone. Always keeping him on his toes.

“Focus,” Derek explained and turned so that he was leaning against the sill. “Block everything else, deep breaths.”

“Yeah, I know how to meditate,” Stiles laughed. 

“So you should try it.” He looked settled in, like he was some creep yoga meditation voyeur.

“I can meditate alone you know. I can do lots of things alone.”

Derek looked like he was resisting rolling his eyes, caught somewhere between a huff and glare. “Not when there is a demon with some weird connection to you.”

Stiles opened his mouth, then shut it with an audible click. “Fine.”

_Lies_ , an almost inaudible echo resounded in his mind. It was all lies.


	9. Chapter 9

_  
He walked down the alley with confidence, his footsteps barely louder than raindrops as he marched onward. That was power, he thought. He could control sound, perception. He was invincible. He watched as the High Bitch and her cohorts drove into the Martin Manor - of course she would be friends with the werwolves. Didn’t that just make everything proper._

_But Adramlech’s werewolf problem was no longer his problem._

_He watched for a moment, Allison Argent following the redheaded bitch into the house. The voice had once told him to wait, to weigh his options before making his move. And he was doing that now. He was watching her lock herself in her golden tower. And he didn’t want to wait, he didn’t want to put off what he needed to do. He had weighed his options.He would find another._

_He didn’t need to kill her now. He would kill her, no doubt, but he could find a substitute for the ritual. He wanted power, he wanted to feel the heavy blood wet his fingers and surge through his veins. He wanted to finish this. He was ready to be in control._

_Oh, Lydia Martin would die. She would regret ignoring him, she would regret being the high and mighty cheerleader. She would regret looking down on the peasants. But on his terms._

Slow down, _the voice whispered. He shuddered in relief and in annoyance._

_“Not now,” he hissed and pulled the car door shut. “You don’t get to leave me, alone, then give me orders.”_

Slow down, _the voice whispered, slightly more manic._ You will ruin everything. You need the girl.

_“No,” Charlie answered. He looked in the rearview mirror and thought he saw the shadow of the demon behind him. “You need her. I just need a prideful spirit.”_

_He put the car into drive and kept talking, knowing the demon could hear. Knowing the demon couldn’t touch him. No one could. “I did some research. You don’t need five bodies. You need the five elements personified. It doesn’t matter who though, just the element. I’ll find someone prideful, I’ll make them be prideful for you.”_

Wretch, _the demon screeched. Charlie laughed, he took the exit for the depot and rolled down the window. Cool air blew through the car and brought with it the smell of victory._

_“I’ll deal with her,” he promised, “I’ll deal with your wolf problem too. My gift to you, a thank you for giving me this. But I have my own prideful, deceitful, infuriating Self to deal with.”_

_Charlie stopped and parked behind the garbage dumpster like always. He made sure his car was parked just far enough past it to hide from prying eyes and the potential driver. He had gotten so good at hiding, he had gotten good at knowing limits. And soon there would be none._

_With a wave of his hand the dumpster moved slightly, the corner covering the car from view. He grinned. It never got old, he thought. With another wave of his hand he pushed open the door and descended the stairs. This power was his. He was meant to have this power. AND MORE._

_He looked at the world he’d created in here: the red rug that covered the blood and painted circle, the candles with their blackened wicks and waxen tears, the plush chairs with feathers and silk. He ran a hand over the herbs, careful not to touch the green sprigs. He thought of the witch who had sold them to him, the glint in her eyes and knew he had found a kindred spirit. One who knew magic and control. He would need another batch of herbs soon._

_There was a pile of books to his left and he grabbed the first. Brown, leather, battered. He flipped to the well-familiar page where Adramlech was drawn in crude lines. He looked nothing like the drawing, Charlie sneered. This was a demon of power, this was one that he could learn from. He felt a cold slide of nails dig into the flesh of his shoulders and knew the demon was near._

_Charlie rolled his eyes and slammed the book shut, then dropped it on the ground without a second thought._

Do you think yourself better than me? _the demon asked, each word tinny and drawn out. Like a snake. Charlie chose not to answer, instead he closed his eyes and drew on his power. He saw Lydia in her home, the brunette with her. They were talking on the phone and Charlie recognized McCall’s voice, then Isaac’s. There was a dynamic there that intrigued him, and infuriated him._

_Who were they. Who were they to work against him. Didn’t they know power when they sensed it? Did they not understand fear?_

_The demon whispered something but he ignored it. Mutterings of a useless has-been. What did it say that the demon needed him? He didn’t need the demon. He didn’t need anyone._

_But he wanted. He wanted to watch Stiles die. He wanted to watch as Stiles watched his dream girl die._

_HE WANTED TO KNOW HOW STILES KNEW._

_HE WANTED TO KNOW HOW STILES HAD FIGURED HIM OUT._

_He straightened himself and made himself taller, then focused his thoughts on Stiles. Rage and anger and curiosity fueled him. Rage at his plan being changed, anger at a nobody figuring out what the cops were too stupid to see._

_He found him, looking out his open window. The Hale guy was there too, and wasn’t that a curious duo? Charlie tried to focus, tried to hear what they were saying — because they were talking and he might not be able to hear but he could read their lips. Murderer. Lydia. Demon._

_HOW DID STILES KNOW SO MUCH?_

_He saw the peacock feather and new rage burst inside of him. Was that from his witch? Had she betrayed him?_

_When he pulled back the room was trashed. The rug had blown to the side, the candles all toppled over. His herbs were strewn on the ground, mixed and ruined. His rage burst through again and in an instant the herbs were smoking, filling the air with the scent of power and anger and incense.._

_He grabbed his keys, swiped his hand to restore the rug and damage, and stormed to his car._

_First, the witch. Then the herbs. Then another moment of control. Another ceremony. He already had a substitute in mind._

_He would finished this damned ritual and start his life the way it was meant to be. Start the life he was meant to have._

_Charlie Harper was done being second fiddle; to a second-rate demon, to a wannabe detective, to worthless werewolves._

_No._

_Charlie Harper was about to step into the light and take charge. Like a man. Like a god._

~~*~~

He heard the door close downstairs and scrambled on still shaky legs down in time to see his father trudge through the kitchen to the dining room table. He grabbed a bag of cookies and milk carton on the way.

Crap. Nothing good came from cookie and milk nights. Or days, even. 

“I’m pretty sure Dr. Monroe would have something to say about the sugar and carb content in the cookie,” Stiles said in lieu of greeting, trying to lighten the already dampened mood. He hoped Derek was listening just as he hoped Derek had taken the cue to leave. “Especially for breakfast.”

His father looked up, met Stiles’s stare, and took a big bite. Then he looked down and Stiles watched him struggle to swallow the bite. The whole act made him smile. His father then drank from the carton and Stiles had to consciously not flinch. Ew. 

“I went to that store,” his father said, finally. He took a bite of the first cookie then set the remaining half on a plate and looked up. Expectantly. “Apparently a young man with dark hair, bumbling reflexes, and a blue jeep was there about a week ago. Bought a peacock feather and some other things.”

Stiles swallowed and laughed, feeling his voice crack with the effort. “That’s funny. How many blue jeeps do you think are there in Beacon county?”

“Only one that I’ve ever seen,” his father answered. “Damnit, Stiles. How many times have I told you — THIS MONTH — to stay out of it?”

“Come on, Dad. It’s a lead, right? Would you or your officers have gone there without it?” Stiles yelled, hearing his voice raise with each word. 

“Yes!” his father bellowed, “No! I don’t know. That isn’t the point. And I don’t know if there even is a point to adding another avenue into the investigation. A witch store? Jesus. But that’s beside the point. Stiles, you’re my son. Someone is out there killing kids your age.”

Again, Stiles thought. This argument again. 

“And I’m a concerned citizen who saw a trend,” he pleaded. Why, he thought, couldn’t his father see what he was doing. Why was it always a struggle. 

His father stood and before Stiles could react he had pulled him in for a hug so tight Stiles struggled for a breath. “I can’t lose you to some psycho because you see something I don’t. I can’t chance you being the next kid I find out there.”

Stiles swallowed as tears prickled his eyes, because that was the killer’s plan. The reality of it — not just his Self as victim but his father being the officer in charge, his father being the one to find him — of all of it hit him like a punch. He clung and whispered he was sorry. He clung and desperately wished he could walk away from it. 

The sheriff pulled back and coughed, and if his eyes were slightly red Stiles didn’t mention it. His were probably just as red.

“So this store. And the blue jeep.”

Stiles plopped on the chair across from where his father had been sitting and broke off a piece of the cookie. 

“Yeah, yeah. Seems the guy who killed the girls might have gotten his supplies from there,” Stiles said around bites. 

“That’s what it sounded like to me,” his father nodded, then seemed to mull something over. A heaviness buzzed along his legs and he bounced them as his father grabbed a pen and began drawing lines over and over in the corner of one of the sheets of paper. 

“I don’t believe in this voodoo hoodoo,” his father said at last. “But the woman who runs the place?” At Stiles’s nod he continued. “She makes you think, maybe. Maybe there’s something else.”

“She was intense,” Stiles replied and tried to make it light. Instead it felt as heavy as his legs.

“She was very intense. She said the boy who came in, the one with the jeep, could be in trouble. You in trouble, Stiles?” His father set the pen down and looked over at him.

Stiles shook his head, “No. I swear, Dad, I’m fine. I just went there on a hunch. Was barely there for more than ten minutes.”

That at least was the truth. His father nodded and Stiles saw the disbelief in his eyes, saw resignation to the lie as well. He gathered his homework from the night before and made his way towards the stairs then turned back, “Maybe you don’t believe in the voodoo hoodoo, but I bet your killer does.”

He left it at that and ignored the silence that followed him. Derek was still in his room Worse, he wasn’t even doing his usual lurking thing. He was sprawled on his bed reading Stiles’s copy of _Lord to the Rings_. Derek held it up, “Read it every year in high school until Laura and I left. Sometimes Tolkien just gets it.”

Stiles laughed at the absurdity, “I’ve heard a lot of things about Tolkien but ‘getting it’ isn’t one of them. Wordy, on the other hand.”

“You and your dad will be okay,” Derek said and folded the corner of the page, then set the book down. Stiles ignored the fact that he didn’t care that Derek had, for all intents and purposes, marked his once pristine book. 

Stiles didn’t respond to that. He threw his chemistry on the desk, sat at his desk chair, and spun until he dropped his feet on the bed. Derek raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“I can meditate without a babysitter,” Stiles said, repeating the argument from earlier. 

“Yes, you can.” Derek agreed. “You can do a lot of things without a babysitter.”

“So you’re still here, because?”

“Because I’m curious what you remember. And, because you always seem to be a step ahead of the rest of us and right now I could use that step.”

Stiles dropped his feet to the floor and leaned forward, “You want to go to the depot tonight.”

Derek gave a single nod.

“And you want to know who it is so you don’t rip someone’s throat out with your teeth.”

Derek rolled his eyes and had the decency to look offended at that, and crossed his arms behind his head while closing his eyes, “I’d never bite a stranger’s throat. It’s unhygienic.”

Stiles gaped then shook his head when Derek smiled, eyes still closed. 

He held a finger up for Derek to wait, then ran down the stairs to his father who was frying up some eggs, hair dripping from his quick shower. It made Stiles’s heart tighten to think his dad was already heading back to work. Gun in its holster, badge pinned to his pocket, the rest of the bag of cookies next to his lunch. At Stiles’s huff his father froze and slowly nudged the bag to behind his lunch.

“What? There was a bakery next to the voodoo store or were you too busy buying feathers and cooking supplies to notice?”

Stiles scrunched his face, “One cookie was enough. Leave the the bag, dad.”

A stare down: father to son, cop to … consultant-son-nuissance. Stiles bit his lip and watched his father’s hand hovering over the bag. 

“You stay in the house, the cookies stay here,” his father said. It was a useless attempt to bargain, they both knew it. Stiles knew he’d be out less than an hour after his father left, and he knew that his father would probably assume he would find Stiles either somewhere outside or coming in just after he did. To compromise and ignore the elephant in the room, Stiles went to the fridge and grabbed a couple of carrots, then dropped them into his father’s lunch.

“At least even it out with a vegetable or three.”

He watched his dad leave and felt the heaviness weigh at him. He was sick of feeling heavy, of keeping a huge part of his life from his dad. He was sick of insane problems like serial killers, demons, werewolves, hunters, even magic store witches. He was sick of Beacon Hills and figured he would start a countdown until graduation and until he could leave this beacon of supernatural. 

“You should tell him,” Derek said from behind him and for a moment Stiles wondered if Derek had ever even seen his kitchen. He turned back and shook his head. 

“He doesn’t need that in his life,” Stiles replied and started walking past Derek only to stop when Derek grabbed is arm.

“And you do?”

Stiles pulled free and shrugged his way up the stairs, “As long as Scott is out there, I’m out there.”

“Stiles,” Derek waited until Stiles turned back, “It’s in his life as much as it’s in yours. And lying to him won’t keep him any safer than keeping it from him.” Stiles shook his head and turned back, knowing that Derek followed, silent, behind him. That silence was louder than the argument he’d had with his father. 

It was pretty obvious that it was just because of Scott that Stiles stayed in this creepy world full of things that seemed to find him appetizing. It was obvious that he was pretty damned good at it. It was also pretty obvious, at least to Stiles, that it wasn’t just Scott Stiles stayed for. And, now he had to deal with the obvious fact that his dad was most definitely already surrounded by and influenced by their paranormal problems. 

He sat himself against the wall, under the window, and closed his eyes. As a kid he’d used this spot to think about his mom, he’d see her in the sun shining through the window and at night in the moonlight. He’d feel her in the wind that tussled his hair through the opened window and hear her in the creaks of the old house. Like she was still there, like she’d never left and was just playing the world’s best game of hide and seek. It had become his spot, the one place in the house that seemed silent and still even when everything else was a blur around him. 

“You should tell him” Derek repeated but Stiles barely heard him. It was easy, he thought, easier than it used to be to shut everything out and drown out the sounds around him. Years of ADHD and creating murder boards in his mind made it nearly impossible to shut the world out. The only way he could slow it down was to find this spot, to count to twenty in Polish, to picture his mom at the foot of his bed. This time, though, it wasn’t his mom at the end of the bed. It was Derek. He thought about the ceremonies they had done, the feeling of stillness in the circle, the feeling of darkness that covered him. It was Derek who was there to pull him back. 

It made the memory easier to fall into; like the wall behind him dissolved into that familiar darkness.

He fell back and looked up; he was standing in front of two hallways. The house, again, and the depot. He turned left and had to fight already formed memories of the depot. Of when Derek and the others lived there. He forcefully buried the images of Erica and Boyd that threatened to step out of the shadows and instead focused the demon. The shadow that he could almost make out. He swallowed bile at the image of Annie, he watched her die. Again. And focused instead on the hands that were his, they were just hands. 

He moved to the second death and listened as He gloated over her. He knew the voice and couldn’t put the name to it. There was an echo to the word, a deepness that seemed new. The demon was surrounding him like a vice, suffocating him …. No, not him. The demon was suffocating the other. The Other Him. It was surrounding him and wrapping itself around him until there was nothing but the veil of death and power. For a moment, even in the mediation, Stiles felt the pull of that power. 

He focused on the third girl, each victim revealing something about the murderer. 

Stiles took a breath and turned and saw something new. This hadn’t been in the vision before. She hadn’t been there. He stepped forward and looked at her. It wasn’t Lydia but it could have been her twin. Deep strawberry red hair, porcelain skin, hazel green eyes. Stiles froze and watched the fear seep into her eyes, eyes that were reflected in a mirror above her. He focused on that, on the mirror and not the girl. He focused on anything but the not Lydia. 

Her fear was palpable, beating in the air like a drum. 

The man above her laughed, threw his head back in gleeful laughter. Man, boy, it didn’t matter. He was powerful and strong, he was in control of the moment. And Stiles was just a voyeur in his madness. A knife in one hand and a bag in the other; Stiles knew that herbs and magic were in the bag. And he saw the fear and confusion grow in not Lydia’s eyes.

Stiles let go, felt his body awaken as he released himself from the meditation. Derek was still with him, sitting cross legged in front of him with his back against the bed and an expectant look on his face.

“Dude, you are not going to believe it,” Stiles whispered. His voice shook and he was sure it wasn’t from fear. It was shock, it was disbelief. It was the ridiculousness of the entire situation. 

“You saw him? The killer?” Derek asked, pressing a hand on Stiles’s knee. 

“Yeah,” he answered and laughed. Derek tightened his grip and Stiles sobered. “It’s just a kid, like me. Like we thought. It’s a guy from my chemistry class that couldn’t balance an equation before Adramlech.”

“I need a name, Stiles,” Derek ground out. He was standing now and looking ready to pace the length of Stiles’s bed. 

“Charlie. Charlie Harper.” Stiles leaned his head against the wall and shook his head, watched Derek for a second before continuing. “You know, I thought it was him for like a second. But then, it couldn’t be. He’s just some random kid in my class who was never gonna be anything better than a fourth string nobody.”

“And now he’s a killer,” Derek finished, he pulled out his phone then looked down at Stiles. “Stay here.”

Stiles nodded, heard Derek calling Isaac and probably Scott, then he leapt out the window. Silence. A car drove down his street and he sat alone in his house thinking about the girl, about the demon, about everything. He saw it. He understood. He understood wanting to be powerful, he understood wanting an easy way out. 

But he didn’t. 

He didn’t understand the point where you took a life for yourself. He didn’t understand giving up something for something that evil. He didn’t understand the trust in the voice from the dark. Stiles stood and grabbed his keys and wallet, then ran down the stairs. He might not be a wolf, but he knew there was another victim and he doubted Derek was going to give her a second glance. When wolf came to shove, Derek was laser focused in a way that Stiles wasn’t. Derek saw evil and stopped it, Stiles saw the girl and could save her.

He made it to the depot and, as he thought, he saw Derek’s Camaro and Scott’s bike. He ran to the first building and knew it was the wrong one; no sounds of crashing or destruction of property to start with. He glanced at the building where Derek and the others had once lived and for a moment he wanted to forget death, he wanted to forget demons. He wanted to see a beautiful blonde strut around the corner and threaten him with a grin on her face. He swallowed and pushed forward to the next building, to the building with the almost familiar cracked windows and the door slightly ajar. 

He kept close to the wall and down in the shadows, he might be human but he was better than most as staying hidden. He was the son of the sheriff and he wasn’t an idiot. He looked down over the railing and saw the fight already had started: Derek and Charlie were hand in hand, Scott was down on the ground with blood gathering at his lip and Isaac was struggling to get up. His shirt was torn and there was more blood beneath him. In the corner, with her hands tied in an ugly knot, was the girl. The girl who wasn’t Lydia. 

Stiles stayed low and stayed slow, eyes moving on the girl and Charlie. He knew better than to track Derek; he don’t need to track the two hundred pound werewolf. Said werewolf was focused on the boy, and the demon. He reached the girl in time to hear a crash to the side of him and he saw Charlie hit the ground, head slamming against the concrete floor with a sickly crack. When he opened his eyes gone were the familiar hazel eyes of his classmate that he’d seen in the vision, in their stead were ink black eyes looking at him. Only not. Charlie didn’t see him, didn’t take the time to focus, he was already turned back to Derek.

Stiles pulled the girl closer, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her backwards until his back his the wall and her back was against his chest. He felt her heart thumping against his chest and tightened his hold. He kept hushing her, he tried to turn her focus from the trio of werewolves and demon to him but she wouldn’t turn. For God’s sake, focus on him, focus on the normal one in the room. From the side of his vision he thought he saw the demon flickering into view and wondered if Adramlech was able take his true form in our world. By he way Scott leapt through him, though, Stiles figured not. The girl grunted and Stiles was pulled back to her, he lowered the gag from her wet mouth. 

“Help me,” the girl pleaded, tears running dusty streaks down her cheeks. “Please, God, help me. He’s going to kill me.”

“Shhh, you’re okay. No one is dying. I promise,” Stiles whispered; when she turned to face the action he turned her back him and looked her in the eyes. “I need you to listen to me. I need you to do exactly what I say. You need to stay here and stay hidden. He can’t find you.”

The girl clung to him, her wrists bleeding and scratched from the rope and Stiles cursed himself for not cutting her free immediately. He pulled on the knot and finally used his pocket knife to free her. He gently massaged her wrists and felt the heat from the burns with a sick horror. He pulled her fingers into his hands, pulling her wandering focus back to him. 

“Please, listen,” he repeated. “You have to stay here.”

He turned to see Derek growl as he leapt from the railing, and how he got up there Stiles had no idea, onto where Adramlech was standing and laughing. The demon was to the side, basking and laughing at the fight. Stiles pulled the girl to the corner and pushed her down, then held his finger up to his mouth and she nodded. He needed quiet, he needed to help. More tears were streaking her face but no sound escaped her mouth. 

Stiles kept himself low, he kept himself light. He made it to where his friends were fighting and saw the familiar layout. For a few minutes reality blended with the visions and he fought to find which was real. He looked down and saw dried blood cracking under the ridiculously bright rug, and kicked the corner of it with his shoe. For some reason this struck him as the oddest part of this moment; a bright red and blue and yellow rug in a dingy depot with demons and werewolves. He bent down and examined the stain … no, the stains. He thought he could tell each stain from the others. Each victim from the other. He saw the lines like he’d seen at Annie’s scene, and the lines he’d seen in the visions. Adramlech’s sigil, he figured. 

He looked to his right and through the haze of the fight and visions he made his way to the peacock feather standing tall in a pale urn. He recognized the altar from flash he had seen before. He stood where the shadowed figure had stood and wondered if this was what he had seen, or had it been Charlie. He saw the mirror, glowing slightly every time Charlie screamed or called out a spell, and Stiles reached for it. He reached out and immediately pulled back; so cold it burned hot. He swallowed the pained cry that shot up, and pulled his hand back to his chest. The commotion around him was raging, he could hear things breaking and growls and screams coming from somewhere to his left. But the sounds were drowning, bubbling in his ears. Pain seared down his hand and arm.

_Run_ , the voice whispered to him. _Take the girl and leave._

He turned and saw the shadow of Adramlech facing him and felt the girl grab his hand. She’d crawled to him, her hands now covered in dirt and blood. Stiles looked over in time to see Derek throw Charlie against the wall and he flinched when the wall cracked beneath the impact. But Charlie stood up, laughing as he did as though it was nothing, and raised his hands. Stiles stared for a moment at the power Charlie possessed; being thrown by a werewolf was no easy feat. To stand and brush it off was a shock. He felt the magic, felt the air still and somehow everything in the room pulled towards the other man. The room was tuned to Charlie, Charlie was centered on Derek. 

He reached for the mirror again, ignoring the pain as the icy fire crawled up his skin. Red and white lines followed the icy fire. His body seemed to move on autopilot, his hands shook as he reached for the feather and herbs. Even as he touched them, the brown bag of the herbs rough against his finger tips and the feather dampening against his palm, he felt like an outsider watching himself. He took control and turned to the fight. 

“Hey!” 

Both Charlie and Derek looked over. He twisted the feather in his hand, grazing one side of the razor sharp vane against the bag. He dropped the mirror on Charlie’s altar and felt the air in the room still. “Looks like your pet is going to have wait for another loser, Chuck.”

Charlie growled, a screamed that sounded more like that of the demon than a man. The shadow that had been watching him slithered to hide behind the boy and Stiles got it. Later he’d curse himself for not getting it before, the demon couldn’t live without Charlie and Charlie couldn’t survive as he was without the demon. Charlie launched himself at Stiles, eyes black and his face a familiar grimace. Charlie’s face morphed into Adramlech’s. And he was close, close enough that Stiles thought he could feel the demon’s breath when Derek pulled Charlie … Adramlech … to the ground. He dropped the feather, torn between watching the scene in front of him and the magic happening on the altar. 

The feather … it had made the silver of the mirror ripple. He swallowed and felt sweat gather at his neck. He thought about the mountain ash at the club, the way Deaton had told him to focus. A spark, Deaton had said. Maybe this was another spark. He thought he heard the witch’s laugh, felt her eyes on him as he looked down. He looked up just in case and saw Derek holding Charlie to the ground. 

“Finish it, Stiles!” Derek yelled, then screamed when Charlie turned his power onto the werewolf. Derek was on his knees, grabbing his head while Scott and Isaac were circling, trying for a better angle. Stiles froze. He looked from the herbs on the floor to the girl, to Derek, too Charlie. 

“I don’t get it,” he said. He looked at Charlie and shook his head, “Why do it?”

“For this,” Charlie cackled. He squeezed his fingers together and Derek’s scream became a howl. “For power. For unlimited power. This beast is nothing compared to me. And look at me!” He turned to Stiles and spread his arms. “I am changed. I’m not some loser. I’m not like the rest of you. I am a God.”

Stiles shook his head, behind him the girl whimpered and screamed out. He heard her try to run and saw her from the corner of his eye. Never run when the maniac is looking at you, he thought. Sure enough Charlie stopped her, dropped her like a puppet until she was in the pose the other girls had been in: arms spread, legs together, a cross and Stiles watched as her body rotated to a quasi contorted cross. He realized Charlie didn’t need ropes, they were for show. They were to build girl’s fear and heighten his own enjoyment. 

Charlie got off on it. 

Beneath his hand the mirror had begun to warm, the liquid of the silver pulsing as Stiles tapped his fingers in a beat. He looked back down and thought back to the vision, the turquoise and green glimmers that had stayed in the shadow. The demon hadn’t wanted him to see. Was the feather beginning the glow? He licked his lips and nodded to himself. This could be his sacrifice, he knew, or this could be his salvation. He turned and heard the commotion behind him; Scott and Isaac had pounced and the demon was once again distracted. Stiles ran his hands over the altar, pausing over the mirror as he passed. He thought back to the book he and Lydia had dismissed, of the image of the imprisoned goblin. Its face had been twisted in indignation. The demon hadn’t won just yet. He looked back and saw the demon and Charlie and watched, almost in slow motion, as Charlie leap for him, hatred burning aiding him in his rage.

But not in time. Time sped up and Stiles knew what he needed to do. He thought of the prison, thought of the demon’s vanity and focused on it. He looked at himself, locked eyes with the Self and saw the demon flicker behind him. Vanity and power and humanity. He closed his eyes and held the mirror up, felt along the back and turned it to face the mirror above him. The demon’s face, if it was still there, would now flicker between the mirror from the altar and the mirror it faced. When he opened his eyes the mirror was suspended in the air. A chill chased the icy fire from before and the air stilled again. He could _feel_ the magic. He threw the bag of herbs onto the mirror. It landed with a soft sound onto the feather and he watched in fascination as the feather and bag sank into the blackness of the mirror’s reflection. 

Almost immediately the demon evaporated, fading into the light with a vicious screech. Charlie fell to the ground, his cries becoming helpless and pathetic sobs. Slowly Derek stood, his eyes blood red and his claws itching to mark. The girl gasped and screamed, she pulled herself up and ran to Stiles but her eyes were locked on Charlie and Derek. 

“Don’t,” Stiles warned Derek but it was useless. Derek was already lifting the other boy until they were eye to eye. Derek’s claws digging holes into Charlie’s shirt and Stiles would bet money there there were new scratches on the boy’s chest as well, courtesy of Derek. Scratches that wouldn’t heal like before. 

“He needs to be stopped,” Derek said. Stiles heard sirens approaching and closed his eyes because there wasn’t a lie in the world that would convince his father that this happened to be a coincidence. 

“Not this way,” Stiles said instead. He picked up the fallen mirror and looked back at Derek, purposely not paying attention to what was driving up. 

Beside him Scott was baring his teeth and panting, “Put him down, Derek. We don’t kill.”

“It’s a matter for the cops,” Stiles said. He took a step forward. “We have a witness,” the girl sobbed into her fist and backed up a step. Her eyes was wide, taking everything in and comprehending none of it. She looked at Derek and sobbed, looked at Charlie and turned away, into Stiles’s shoulder. Stiles pitied the girl and the therapy she would unquestioningly need.

Derek released him but leaned down, “Next time,” he warned, “They won’t save you.”

Stiles sighed and helped steady the girl on her feet, he made sure to block her view from the others. 

“What’s your name?” he asked. He made sure to keep eye contact and rub the chill from her arms. She looked at him and nodded, wiped her eyes and swallowed the questions he knew she undoubtedly had. 

“Mia,” she stuttered. For a second she flicked her eyes to Scott then back to Stiles. “Are they …”

“The good guys,” he answered then nodded slowly. “But the cops can’t know. They don’t know. They can’t know about them, Mia.”

She nodded and for a moment Stiles pitied her again. The lie that she would always carry with her and the trauma. So much trauma because of greed and pride, because of one kid’s desperate need for power and popularity. He looked back at the others and nodded to the window. “Get outta here.” 

Isaac didn’t need to be told twice, he jumped to the railing and crawled out of one of the broken windows like a pro. Stiles was sure this wasn’t the first, or the last time, Isaac had escaped trouble through a broken window. Scott stayed, clearly torn between running and staying. 

“Go, man. It won’t do you any good to get in trouble,” Stiles sighed. He heard Charlie groan and ignored it. 

“I can stay,” Scott insisted. “Tell your dad it was my —”

“In what world has it ever been your idea to sneak out in the middle of the night and look for,” he looked at Mia then back to Scott. Scott huffed and laugh and nodded. 

“You too, Wolfman,” he said to Derek. Derek waited, looked at the girl, back to Stiles and nodded. He made a point of walking back to Charlie who seemed lesser now, his body and mind broken. Derek picked him up, again making them eye to eye and Stiles was sure Charlie stared into the red eye stare of an alpha, then dropping him to the floor with a pitiful thump and whimper. 

Stiles helped Mia step wide of Charlie. He, slid the mirror into his back pocket and made sure that his flannel covered the shape, then led her to the stairs and helped her up. He took a deep breath before opening the the door and finding three cruisers outside - lights flashing bright reds and blues. Immediately Stiles found his father in the crowd of officers; arms crossed, face set, and shoulders straight.

Crap.

Stiles wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled the girl closer, then led her to his father who immediately transformed from angry and confused father into caring and sensitive sheriff. 

“Come on, sweetheart. We have an ambulance on the way,” he spoke in hushed tones but the look his sent Stiles was anything but hushed. In fact, it said quite a lot. 

We will talk later.  
You lied to me.   
Are you hurt?  
Not again.  
What happened?

Stiles shook his head and waited for his father to come back. Mia sat with a blanket over her shoulders in the back of one of the police cars. Stiles watched as the ambulance came up, sirens blaring and lights flashing. By the time his father had come back to him EMS was already examining Mia. 

“So,” his father said. Arms were crossed, sheriff’s face was on.

Stiles grabbed the back of his neck, the lie already beginning to itch there. “So ….”

“What am I going to find down there, son?”

Stiles flinched and nodded. “A guy. Funny story, he’s actually a guy in my chem class. Totally not a chemist but —”

“Stiles,” her father cut in. 

“He was into some witchy stuff? Maybe. I guess.”

His father nodded twice, then nodded acknowledgement to the officers already going down. “Witchy stuff, huh? Like from the store you sent me to?” Stiles nodded, eyes on the puddle his father was standing in. It had started to rain at some point, he wasn’t sure when. His father’s shoes were never going to dry. “Interesting.”

“Yeah,” Stiles tried to laugh it off and failed, a hiccup sob coming out instead. Immediately his father pulled him in, holding him tight enough that the breath escaped him. “Stop it,” his father ordered. “Stop coming to these scenes. Stop being too damned smart. Stop making me worried and proud and —”

“Dad,” he whispered and hugged him tight. “I’m sorry. She was in trouble. I didn’t know, I thought…”

“Yeah,” his father pulled back, clapped a hand on his shoulder and used his other hand cupped around Stiles’s face. “We are going to talk about this. But not now. Maybe not even tonight,” he sighed. “You did good, son.”

Two officers were leading Charlie up the stairs, hands cuffed behind his back and raving about demons and werewolves. One of the officers came up and showed his father, and by extension Stiles, pictures of the scene on one of the cameras. There was enough evidence to put Charlie away, more then likely he would be tried as an adult given his age. Even more likely, he would plead insanity. Stiles looked over at Mia who had gone ghost white as Charlie was led to a car, they weren’t close but even he was drawn to the commotion of Charlie’s demented screams. 

“Think he’ll get off on insanity?” Stiles asked, thankful for a rumble of thunder covering the shake in his voice.

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” his father answered. “What’s the girl going to tell me, Stiles?”

He back looked at Mia and shook his head, and was grateful that he could answer truthfully. “I don’t know.”

“Go home.” 

His dad pulled him close again and Stiles knew the truth, the revelation of the truth, was one step closer to his father. He walked past the girl and stopped when she leapt up and grabbed him close. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, hugging him tight. When she pulled back the tears were gone, or maybe just mixed with the rain, but a fierceness had replaced fear. He nodded and walked back to the jeep. He wasn’t surprised to see Derek on the other side, opening the passenger door and sliding in when Stiles opened the driver’s side. He tossed the mirror into the backseat and was pleased when he thought he heard a scream. 

“Everything okay with your dad?” 

Stiles nodded, took a moment to watch the scene behind him. “Not sure how Dad knew to come here.”

“He’s a cop, Stiles. He had more evidence that we did. We were always working with half the story.”

Stiles laughed, “He had all the evidence, man. He could have saved her.” He squinted at the scene outside. “We probably didn’t even need to be here.”

“We saved her, Stiles. You did that,” Derek replied. They drove away from the lights and the scene, and Stiles tried to be inconspicuous with Beacon Hills’s once-most-wanted in his passenger seat. 

About half a mile away Derek turned around in his seat and looked at the mirror, Stiles could appreciate the apprehension he saw. “So, what about that?”

He slowed at one of the STOP signs and glanced over, “I figured I know a witch who might be interested.” He drove forward and bit his lips together, seeing the normal world pass by while his werewolf co-pilot looked into the backseat where he had somehow trapped a demon from hell in a mirror. “And about that whole telling my dad, thing.”

Derek nodded and stretched back, he adjusted the seat; for a moment Stiles wanted to tell him to keep it in Scott’s position. Then didn’t. 

“Anytime,” Derek said at last. 

“Good. Tomorrow sounds good.” Stiles turned on the music, low and hard rock. “You know,” he grinned, “we did the thing.”

Derek opened one eye and looked over, “The thing?”

Stiles’s grin grew, “We saved people, we —”

“Still no, Stiles,” Derek answered, but he thought he saw a smile on the usual sour face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for making it this far! I hope you enjoyed the fic and the world I got to dabble in. :)


End file.
